


uproot the world

by abscission



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Alien Invasion, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Blade of Marmora Lotor (Voltron), Eventual Happy Ending, Keith/Hunk if you squint, M/M, Minor Character Death, Organized Rebellion - Freeform, Past Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Past Character Death, Shance Flower Exchange 2019, Slow Burn, Soft Lotor (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-08 17:01:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19873018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abscission/pseuds/abscission
Summary: In a world where the Galra invaded Earth, their technological superiority had so far prevented the local rebellion from achieving anything of substance. And then, two years ago, the Blades arrived.or: a local rebellion cell tries to scrape a living behind the cover of a flower shop while they try not to draw anymore attention after a failed assassination attempt.





	1. and so... a collision

**Author's Note:**

  * For [K_Noppa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Noppa/gifts).



> a very late and as-yet incomplete gift to [k-noppa](https://k-noppa.tumblr.com/) for the shance flower exchange on tumblr that I will keep updating and tag properly when it is finished.
> 
> prompt: shiro and lance meet at the arena / flower: striped carnation

Three months of experience has taught Lance to always mimic Lotor’s movements when on the job. Galra physique, it turns out, isn't much different from a human’s. Five fingers, four limbs, one head an’ everything — crippling blows land in the same general area, and if you shoot a bullet into their heads it’ll still pop like an overripe fruit.

Regris made them sound-absorbent footwear, two-toed like deer. He also made silencers for all of Lance’s projectile guns, so differentiated because the Galra also brought over a few of their space-tech sniper rifles — energy-based, no recoil, lightweight and deadly. All for _him!_ Lance floated on that ego-boost for a whole month.

He and Lotor snuck through the empty corridors of the repurposed stadium, the roar of the crowd a low hum in the background. It was no louder than the air-conditioning, but Lance still had to clench his hands against a shiver when he picked out the alien, chittering, warbling calls.

They had already taken more turns than Lance could remember, but the blinking blue indicator overlay in his field of vision (Blade-tech, mask) led the way, and Lotor’s pace never slowed. Into the belly of the whale they plunged, down corridors and up fire escapes and finally, past a fuse box and a splintered door smeared with blood, they stopped in front of a series of rungs halfway up the wall. The blinker turned red, then disappeared.

Lotor regarded the roof access hatch; Lance adjusted the strap of his gun carrier. He'd brought the ‘low-tech’ Earth-guns this time round. They were here to blow a Galra’s head off, not politely open a very clean hole.

Lotor unslung his pack, handed it to Lance, and in two leaps was up the five meter wall, an arm and leg looped through a rung to keep himself in place, already picking the lock.

 _Leave no trace_ , Thace had stressed.

Within a minute the lock popped, and Lotor was pushing cautiously on the access hatch, spilling light onto the shadowed roof. Not that anyone was going to notice one more slice of light when there was such riveting _entertainment_ going on below. Lotor glanced down, expression hidden by the full-face Blade mask, and gestured for Lance to follow him. Another fluid motion, almost inhuman, and he disappeared into the darkness above. 

Lance secured the packs, then followed.

Lotor was his spotter, there to tell him whose head he was blowing off and make sure it was properly in bits. As far as Lance could gather, Lotor had some sort of long-disavowed past involvement with the upper crust of the Galra military and social circles. The Blades guarded their secrets viciously, and even Pidge wasn’t daring enough to go poking around their archives. The Blades were humanity’s only ally against their invaders — so, 'do not insult', etc.

As Lance climbed onto the roof, Lotor lowered the access hatch — a thick piece of solid metal, but he handled it as though it weighed no more than cardboard. The white lights of the corridor died, and then they were backlit by the spotlights of the arena, rigged to cast a hellish purple light instead of their usual floodlight-white.

“Your people really like purple, huh,” Lance muttered, handing back the pack, and Lotor huffed softly, extracting a pair of binoculars.

“The sky,” he said, voice perfectly level, “was purple, at home.”

The blinker had come back on. They picked their way across the roof, careful to stay entirely in shadow; the floodlights made the night darker and shapes both hard to recognize and startlingly distinct. Up in the open air, the screeches of the creatures in the arena were frighteningly clear.

 _Not a human sound below_ , Lance thought, and then they reached their indicated position, hidden behind a protrusion in the roof's architecture. 

Setting up his stand and scope and — well. He should probably be honest here. He’s no sniper. There hasn’t been a sniper in the rebellion’s paltry ranks since the Army was annihilated five years ago. After that, there was no one around to train him, and the aliens, blessed as their skills are, were unfamiliar with Earth weaponry. The gun he’s setting up now? Learned from Grandpa McClain at the shooting range when all was still peaceful. His skills now? Honed from necessity. It was sit there and rot or fight with a slim chance of survival, and no Garrison cadet signed up for space exploration to sit around and twiddle their thumbs.

At his side, Lotor was flat on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, scope trained on the stands below. Lance breathed in, out, and settled into his own position.

* * *

Shiro couldn’t rest his elbows on his knees anymore, because the druid-metal arm wasn’t the same weight as his flesh arm when it was deactivated. If he leaned his elbows on his knees like he used to, he’d tilt to one side and end up trying to balance himself instead of achieving the pose’s intended purpose — relaxation.

Relaxation before a match was important. It was especially important now, when they hadn’t let him meditate in his room. It was cold in his room; it was always cold in this facility — a sports stadium before their refurbishment — because the Galra ran hotter than humans. Shiro knew this because he had cut open too many Galra to count, been soaked in their blood too many times to care.

Instead, he was confined to the cell-like waiting room, the release hatch to the arena firmly locked and the exit of the room guarded, along with all the other stinking, shivering aliens. This week's batch was different; he was the only bipedal in the room. Usually, the shipments of arena fodder were more… diverse. Unless whoever the facility was welcoming today had a strange taste for curb-stomp battles (it certainly sounded like one) he couldn’t think of another reason the aliens were so stick-like.

He never liked crushing bugs. Hated the _crunch_ most of all. Looking at these aliens, his teeth ached, and the nerves on his right hand tingled.

“Next batch, move,” said one of the Galra guards from the exit, coming forwards, plasma pistol in hand. Shiro had one of those shot at him once, when he tried to escape. Burned a hole clean through his thigh, cauterized the wound in and out, he could see through it like a peephole. Painful and deeply disturbing. He didn’t try running again, and that included in the arena. They gave him the bionic arm _after_ he survived that match.

Right on cue, the roar of the crowd swelled. The hatch hissed open, and the stench of piss and sweat and blood and body fluids swept into the room. Even the door-guards wrinkled their noses.

The guard chivvied out the aliens (they went, chittering) and didn’t spare Shiro a glance. Shiro tipped his head back against the metal wall, closed his eyes and breathed through his mouth. Counted to ten. Flexed his flesh fingers where he laid his hand, palm up, then flexed his right hand, and it was like wriggling his fingers through jelly.

Combined with the alien fluids, his mind offered up a word: _viscous_.

That was the quality of Galra blood. Blue, thick, and viscous. He couldn’t get it out of his hair with only water to wash, and eventually his handlers had his hair shaved to spare themselves. _He_ quite liked the trophy. Afterwards his hair grew with a white forelock.

The hatch hissed closed. The air filters revved like a Ducati. The guards clicked back to their stations. The alien chittering had stopped.

Shiro opened his eyes to see he was alone in the waiting room.

* * *

“What is going _on_ down there…” Lance sucked in a breath through his teeth. Beneath the din of the crowd, he could hear a faint popping sound, like somebody playing with bubble wrap. From his angle, he could only see the crowds, not the arena. If he propped himself up a bit—but he couldn’t do that, he had to stay in position. 

Lotor, however, did. He dropped back down almost immediately, and his mask dematerialized for him to clap a hand over his mouth. His purple skin looked much too pale for it to be a trick of the light.

Their eyes met, and Lotor gave a single shake of his head.

The crowd’s volume lowered itself then, not by much, but just enough for Lance to hear something go _splat_ , sending goosebumps skittering along his arms. Lotor looked like he would actually be sick into his hands; he was clutching the binoculars like a lifeline, and his gloves looked a bit pointier than usual. If _Lotor_ was shaken...

Lance swallowed the bile that rose to his throat. Refocused along his scope.

With a startlingly steady hand, Lotor pointed down the scope. His voice was a little raspy when he spoke. “Eye augmentation and advanced bionic arm, no other outstanding characteristics. You see him? Bio-eye is yellow, a sign of quintessence over-saturation. He’s one of the Generals; only they get quintessence baths to that degree.”

“I see him. Ugly as sin. We take him out, what’s it gonna cost the Empire?” Lance lined up the shot.

“Oh,” and this time, finally, Lance heard some emotion in Lotor’s voice, a shaky, vindictive satisfaction, “just a couple of galaxy clusters.”

Lance’s breath hitched. _Clusters_. They’ve finally got a big fish in their pond, and he’s gonna get to blow this space cat’s greymatter into filaments.

Steady now… Remember what Grandpa said…

* * *

Shiro looked at the hulking monstrosity in front of him warily.

It had five arms, and its three-clawed palms dripped with the same yellow-brown liquid that was sprayed all over the arena walls and floor, interspersed with crushed body parts.

Two long tongues hanging and curling, ant-eater like.

Two legs, bent backwards like a bird’s, built like an elephant’s.

Was this some druid-creation?

No eyes, but those tongues were annoyingly wavy.

It didn’t seem able to roar, which was good. The crowd was deafening, although they had calmed down from their screaming earlier (“Champion! Champion!” Truly, he was touched at their grasp of Terran,) at his entrance.

It had been a short wait, and Shiro breathed a sigh of relief when the weight on his right shoulder eased and a glow started in his lower vision.

 _Let’s get rid of those tongues, but first…_ He darted to the right, towards where at least some boulders still stood — it had been a long event: a warm-up, a welcome blood-letting, ‘variety shows’, tea break, the primer, the fake-out, and the main act.

By the time it got to him, well. The opponent was usually so fed up they’d smashed half the arena.

The monster followed him, surprisingly fast on two legs despite its proportions, but Shiro, now up at the top of the boulder, sliced through the incoming arm with a sound like tearing fabric and leaped onto the other one. Once on, he used his arm like an ice axe to steady himself, then started a frantic scramble for leverage.

 _Timing_ , he thought, and threw himself at the monster’s face.

He didn’t remember what happened between that and the limp, sticky tongues in his hand, the monster’s face a bloody cavern, its arms slashed and burnt and its legs collapsed at unnatural angles, ankles gushing blood. But Shiro was alive and it was dead, and that was all that mattered in the arena. 

At first he thought the roar in his ears was the crowd, but the note was off. Too guttural, not enough range to be celebratory.

His head snapped up to the VIP box situated halfway up the stands for its favorable viewing position and where the Galra officers were placed when they visited and—

Absolute chaos.

Halfway up the stands meant a long fall to the sandpit, and right then, a Galra officer had shot a human (most likely a rich mogul trying to use this occupation as some sort of opportunity; Shiro had seen his share of such people) and shoved the body out of the box, grabbing the next one to roar Galran demands into his face before shooting and shoving that one out, too. The Galra never stopped to watch them fall.

But then, Shiro noted with interest, there was already a Galra lying on their side in the arena, head blown clean off. Slight in frame, they weren't in officer garb. Another one was huddled, clutching a bloody mess of a shoulder, looking dazed. Assassination attempt?

Good call.

He looked around again: fleeing audience members tripping over each other, guards swept up in the mass exodus (no one wanted to be around when a Galra got angry), guards being released from inside the facility to swarm the stands, droids following them, _leaving the doors open_.

Shiro didn’t care that his arm deactivated into dead weight outside the range of the arena. He picked the nearest door and _ran_.

* * *

Lance saw the outcome a microsecond after he pulled the trigger — Red Monocle had looked up. So before Lotor could yank him back from the brim, Lance squeezed off another shot, angled to correct his mistaken prediction, and didn’t get to see whether it landed or not.

“—up, we need to get _out_ ,” Lotor was hissing, already on his feet, blade in hand, and with one more tug Lance grabbed his bag and slipped into a crouch.

They crept as fast as they could towards the roof access. Lance stowed his gun and itched to run, but he knew better. 

Lotor hefted the access hatch and Lance ignored the rungs all together, leaping down and rolling to cushion his fall. Lotor had no such compunctions, but then, he worked fast. In the time it took Lance to get on his feet, Lotor had closed the hatch and snapped the lock back in place. Another blink and he descended in two hops. Landed on the toes, like a deer.

And then tapped the side of his mask — activating something? — “Follow close!” — and took off down the corridor.

They whipped around a corner, right into two guards. Before Lance even registered their raised plasma weapons, Lotor’s long blade scissored between their necks, clean through the voice box, and he was running before their bodies even began to sway.

Lance tucked away his shock to process later, and followed.

* * *

When he felt his right arm grow heavy, Shiro slowed and began following the ‘exit’ signs. Galra never bothered to learn how to _read_ Terran, so why would they think to dismantle these signs?

The empty corridors echoed — he kicked off the standard-issue heels.

The fire escape’s enclosed space was both welcomed and dreaded, and he darted out of it on the second floor with a pounding heart. Didn’t want to chance the last door being locked.

He followed the signs to the carpark access, and sighed with relief when he saw it was still there. There’d be a ramp, and an underground exit, and then he’d be— He cut himself off. No jumping ahead. Patience.

His right shoulder was twinging with mild strain, now. He’d never been so long with a fully deactivated arm before.

And then, pushing open a door with a faded ‘P’, several things happened at once.

A figure with a white braid sliced through the guard’s neck, and the latter went down with a spasm and a spray of blood, soundlessly.

Shiro gasped.

Two dark-clothed figures spun around, two sets of circular white voids in two identically alien faces — _masks_ , he thought a beat late, _alien masks_ — regarded him for a second, then the taller one pushed open the second door, grabbed the smaller one around the waist, and they were swallowed by the darkness beyond.

 _—Wait!_ Shiro tried to run after them, but his sudden movement swung his right arm, and, balance lost, he fell forwards.

As he pushed himself back up, his gaze locked with the glassy ones of the Galra guard. The helmet had fallen off. His head lay at a crooked angle, his neck wound gaped like—

Shiro blinked the sudden littering of black spots across his vision and swallowed back the acid tang at the back of his tongue.

Galra physique was still similar to humanity, and the phantom pain, the viciousness of the attack, they were seared into the back of his eyelids.

Whoever the two figures were, though, they didn’t like Galra, and based on the strength of that alone, Shiro staggered past the dead guard and into the carpark. If he noticed his footsteps were stained dark blue, he didn’t pause.

For a second after he stepped into the darkness of the carpark, he couldn’t see at all. When the wave of fear passed, anger filled him. This was _his_ world, _his_ Earth, and his first taste of freedom was to be tainted by fear because the Galra and the druids spent so long inspecting him in the bright end of a surgical light. He was going to find these white-eyed insurgents and join up and kill himself some space cats.

Four pinpricks of light floated across his vision, and as they circled closer, dimmer strips of light revealed themselves.

When Shiro realized what was happening, the tip of that long blade, still dripping blue blood, was resting against his neck. The taller one stepped partially into the square of light let in by the pane set into the doors, revealing a strangely cut bodysuit. “Who are you?” It hissed.

The shorter one hovered near the former’s elbow … peering, at Shiro. There was no other word to describe its behavior.

He suddenly remembered what he was wearing; his handlers didn’t debase themselves to any such thing as _laundry_ , so he didn’t get a change of clothes until he bloodied it. His bodysuit and loose-hanging top clung to him, sodden with sweat and blood and unidentified fluids. There was still blood on his face that he hadn’t wiped off. On top of all that, he stank.

With the masks on, Shiro couldn’t read their expressions.

The shorter one nudged the taller one, jerking its chin towards his bionic arm. The latter’s mask shifted. It was unsettling, how well their stealth gear blended into the murky shadows.

Shiro tried to speak, but all that came out was a wisp of air. He tried to remember the last time he spoke—properly formed words, instead of screaming or roaring, and he came up blank. Since the ship was beamed onto the Galra battlecruiser and he tried to reason with the Galra on the bridge, he hadn't…

“Champion?” The taller one’s tone was demanding now. The blade prodded at his neck. “Are you the Champion of the Arena? Speak, before I fell you where you stand!”

Shiro opened his mouth again, but if the hiss and crack of air could be interpreted as ‘yes’, it eluded even the speaker. Gods above, he was thirsty.

“Leave it,” said the shorter one; a mellower voice. Darker, somehow, gentler. It laid a hand on the taller one’s sword-arm and lowered it. “Pidg—eon just informed me our ride is here.”

That was obviously a codename, not to mention the strange pause. Shiro licked his cracked lips, ignored the foul taste, and tried one more time. “My name…is Shiro.”

His voice still broke on the second word and it whistled on the sibilant sounds, but the message went across.

They had been turning away, but now they faced him fully. The taller one looked past him this time, through the pane of plastic into the building. It seemed tense. The shorter one fixed the unnerving mask on him. “Shiro?” It— _he_ — repeated, “Any relation to Takashi Shirogane, Garrison Captain, pilot of the Kerberos mission?”

Shiro gaped.

And then the taller one seized the shorter’s arm and began tugging him away. “We’ve lingered too long.”

“Just a second,” the shorter one insisted, shrugging off the arm. “Shiro?” There was a note of urgency in his voice that Shiro didn’t understand. Before he could formulate a response, however, the taller one snatched the shorter’s shoulder and hissed, “The Blades do not _compromise_. We did not survive this long on pure _luck_. We _go. Now_.”

“Alright,” said the shorter one, “but we take him with us.”

A pause. “ _What._ ”

“If this man knows anything about the Kerberos mission, Pidge deserves to know.”

Two blank masks turned to him again. As though to smooth out a deal, the shorter one said, “We cut off that arm if he becomes a threat.”

The last thing Shiro remembered was the taller one swinging the pommel of the knife down towards his temple and a burst of pain.

* * *

While Lotor dealt with the unconscious body, Lance jogged ahead to spot their getaway ride. Keith hot-wired a different car each time, which was wise, but it did make it a bit hard to find him. Today, Lance found him at the wheel of a pickup.

“Where’s Lotor?” Keith asked through the partition when Lance vaulted onto the back. He needn’t have asked, because a second later there were _two_ thumps. “What—” Keith twisted in his seat, trying to get a look.

“Drive,” Lotor said, curtly. Lance winced. The two of them had gotten off on the wrong foot and been at odds ever since. Usually, Lotor’s missions did not overlap with Keith’s. Their skill-sets were very similar, and there hadn’t been need to have two men running point on the same team yet. Today was an exception.

Keith rolled his whole head along with his eyes, then floored the accelerator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the existence of this fic is damning evidence for my inability to write short stories.
> 
> come say hi on [tumblr](https://burntheupholstery.tumblr.com)!


	2. a struggle of the heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone searches for something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before Shiro left, he and Adam had That Conversation. It's not exactly on Shiro's mind but you can't say he doesn't think about it all the damn time, either.

When Shiro opened his eyes, he thought he was dreaming.

He was in a small room suffused with orange, lit by floor lamps set at the sides. They had red-and-black checkered shades and were powered by electricity. There were no windows. He was lying on some sort of bed, inclined upwards at the waist, and a thin blanket was draped across his legs. He hadn’t changed out of his arena clothing, and his muscles ached.

On his right, there was a long table and a computer and a mess of wires hooked into his arm, which had been disassembled from the elbow down. A toolkit lay open further down the table, and lines of code was scrolling down the computer screen. Aside from three cups of half-finished coffee, a plate of [bellflowers](http://www.perennial-gardens.com/balloon-flower/balloon-flowers.php), and two chairs, no one was in the room.

He wasn’t shackled down, and the door was ajar.

It didn’t look like a Galra facility, but he wasn’t going to chance it. He threw off the blanket and got to his feet, then braced himself clumsily against the table when his vision spun.

There was a crash. Shiro snapped his head up in time to see a coffee mug lying broken on the ground. The liquid inside was so congealed it barely spread to the next tile on the flooring, and even in the haze of alarm Shiro felt mildly disgusted.

The rapid thumping of footsteps from outside made him grit his teeth and push to his feet and adopt a fighting stance. Whatever happened to him, it wasn’t invasive. He could still fight.

The door slammed open and the Galra with slitted eyes in the doorway relaxed. It turned its head to the side and opened its mouth. “He’s aw—” 

Shiro took his opening. Two steps ate up the distance between them. He snapped out a fist, intending to knock out the Galra. He didn’t expect it to react in time, so when it ducked his punch and returned two stinging jabs to his chest, Shiro staggered back and fell to one knee. 

But that was alright, he could take a beating. His temple began to throb and his leg muscles protested. It hadn’t been long since the arena, then, if his body was still this fatigued. 

“The hell’re you doing?!” a new voice cried, and then a smaller frame rushed into view and shoved aside the Galra to kneel beside Shiro. “He’s still healing! What the hell, Regris?”

“I didn’t break any bones,” Regris replied, nonchalant. Shiro blinked rapidly against the blossoming black spots. 

“Hold on,” said the figure hovering next to him, and it wasn’t Matt, but… “Get the quintessence!”

Shiro didn’t know how long he fought off unconsciousness, but the fingers peeling off his dirty arena clothing and rubbing a yellow salve onto his chest was pale and human, and he focused on that.

He was helped back to the bed, and after a few seconds, the spots finally cleared.

A woman hovered over him, brown eyes worried behind circular lenses. She sighed with relief when he offered a hesitant smile, then sank into a chair. She set a jar of something shimmery and yellow on the table.

“I’m Katie Holt, but you can call me Pidge. He’s Regris, he’s on our side. I’ll give you a rundown later, but for now I have to finish cleaning the program in your arm.” She passed a hand over her face, glasses abandoned on the table; she looked exhausted. “We can ask the painful questions later.” 

_Holt_. Shiro grimaced. Was she a sister? Cousin? But it’d been so long and he'd buried his memories of Matt so deep, he couldn’t remember.

“Call me Shiro,” Shiro said.

Pidge peered at him through her fingers. With a heavy sigh she pulled the second computer towards herself and woke up the display. On it, Shiro was surprised to see, was his Garrison file.

“Full name Shirogane Takashi, 22 years of age, astronaut and pilot,” Pidge said. She pointed at his old picture. “That you?”

Shiro couldn’t bear to look at his picture for long. The black-haired man with the self-confident smile wasn’t him anymore, even if he could remember taking that photo. He’d been so proud; first manned mission to the edge of the solar system! Adam hadn't thought so.

Shiro said, “That’s an old picture, Pidge. It’s been five years.”

“So it’s you,” Pidge muttered quietly. “You were on the Kerberos mission.” Brown eyes flicked up and pinned Shiro. “What happened to my brother and father?”

A heavy feeling settled in Shiro’s stomach. He examined the weave of the blanket across his knees to avoid meeting her gaze. He remembered the boarding like it was yesterday, the alien bridge lit in red and purple. 

“Killed,” he said, then turned his face away. She didn’t need to know how the Galra had thrown them out of the airlock and played a game of target, then restrained him as he tried to fling himself out after them.

“Ah,” Pidge said, almost inaudibly. Her jaw tightened and she faced her computer once more, the glowing reflections of the screen on her glasses preventing Shiro from getting a read on her reaction.

The silence that descended in the little room wasn’t tense so much as saturated with resignation. The longer it dragged on, the pricklier Shiro’s skin felt. He knew he didn’t need to feel guilty for simply bearing the news, but that understanding did nothing for his stomach. Casting around for something to say, he found his eyes drawn back to the plate of blue bellflowers. He hadn’t seen anything Earth-grown in too long.

“I’m sorry,” he said, unable to contain himself, “are those real?

“Oh, we're talking now?” Regris said, his already raspy voice extra dry. “So sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Stop being an asshole and help me deprogram the druid firewalls.”

“A second. Champion, is it true you slew three robeasts with only a broken sword?”

Shiro couldn’t decipher the tone in his voice, but he didn’t like it. He turned around. Pidge’s typing had stopped. She was pretending to read the screen, but she watched him from the corner of her eyes. It was quite obvious.

Regris had sat down in the second vacant chair, slitted eyes fixed with a predatory interest on Shiro. A thick tail was draped over an armrest and a clawed foot was drawn up on the seat. “A passing interest. Your title is very famous in the right circles, you know. The One-Armed Champion!” He threw up his arms and exclaimed the last bit. Each of his hands only had four fingers. 

Then Shiro realized what he was looking at. Regris was dressed in the same stealth gear as the two agents at the stadium! Now that he paid attention, he saw the hood, pushed down at the back of Regris’ neck. 

“Your armor,” he began, and noted Regris’ expression fall. No doubt he’d been expecting a dashing tale of daring in the sand pits, but Shiro refused to turn his imprisonment into entertainment to be spread around whatever betting circles Regris frequented. Was he assuming too much? Yes. Did he care? Not particularly. “Two men wearing that rescued me. Who are they?” It suddenly seemed vital that he _know_ they’re alright. And once he started asking questions, he couldn’t stop. “Where are they now? Where am I?”

“Ah, I was wondering when he’d ask that,” Pidge muttered, resuming her typing.

“Yes, yes, Lotor and Lance, wonder duo,” Regris leaned back in his chair, tail flicking. “They’re upstairs. We’re somewhere long Street Delta-Five, and you’re staying underneath the local Galra HQ’s air-freshener supplier.”

“He means flower shop,” Pidge added.

“Just so. But don’t mistake our Blue for a Blade, you hear? He doesn’t like that.” Regris grinned, revealing two rows of sharp teeth. “He’s only _human_ , see, and—” 

“He’s pulling your leg,” Pidge said, rolling her eyes. “We need to introduce you anyway. Regris, go up and call everyone down.”

Regris paused, then very deliberately put two feet on the floor and leaned back. “You do it.”

“And _why_?” Pidge looked up from her computer, unimpressed.

Regris’ tail flicked and didn’t reply. For no reason Shiro could discern, Pidge looked between Regris and him.

Then she sighed. “I do need a stretch. Think you can disable the limiter? I’ve broken the encryption but it’s not making sense.”

Regris cracked his fingers. “No problem. I adore wrecking druid-tech.”

* * *

A grim silence descended on the room when Thace closed the holo-display, mercifully collapsing the sneering face of General Sendak of the Nebulon-3 supercluster, known otherwise as the Virgo supercluster. Lance picked at a loose piece of string on the mattress and imagined that if they had a fireplace, it’d crackle dramatically right about now.

“Sooo,” Hunk said, dragging out the word. He was twiddling his thumbs. “Sendak, huh? We- are- _so-_ fucked.”

They sat in a rough circle in the basement of the flower shop. With two bunk beds stuffed on either side, it left space something to be desired. Pidge wasn’t here, but it hadn’t been easy to fold Lotor and Thace’s tall frames into the cramped area. To save space, Lance was currently sprawled out on his stomach on the top bunk, dirtying the sheets with Galra blood. 

It was, he admitted, partly so he could hide his face easily when it came to the elephant in the room.

“You had to miss, didn’t you.” Keith’s tone was not sarcastic, and it hurt all the worse. He sat on the floor with his back against the other bunk, one leg pulled to him, and from that position it was easy for him to stare accusingly at Lance. Lotor, who had been quiet throughout the whole thing, stiffened where he was leaning against the bunk ladder below Lance. 

Neither of them had changed out of their combat uniforms. There hadn’t been time. 

Thace could be doing yoga, he adopted the lotus position so perfectly. He continued his debrief as though no one had spoken. “From now on all missions will be pair work between the Terrans and Blades. Should you encounter Sendak or a member of his entourage, the Terrans are to _disengage_ , do you hear me?” He directed that at Keith with all the subtlety of a rampaging robeast. “No heroics. You go up against Sendak alone, you _will_ die.

“I will contact the distributor. This is an opportunity that the Leader will recognize and extra supplies will be given to us. We shall proceed after I have conversed with them. Meanwhile,” a corner of his thin lips quirked up, “lay low, all of you. Sell some flowers.”

He stood, inclined his head at Lotor, and moved out of the room, stepping gracefully over the pile of dirty laundry beside the door and navigating past the landmine of Hunk and Pidge’s scattered tool kits.

“So what _can_ we still do?” Hunk asked immediately, and he looked around at all of them. “Let’s make a list, c’mon guys.”

“Don’t get killed by Sendak,” Keith said, biting.

Lance buried his face in the lumpy pillow. He just _had_ to miss. Lotor laid a hand on the elbow Lance let dangle over the edge.

“Yep, that is very important, but I was hoping for ideas closer to home. That stranger Lance and Lotor lugged back, for one?” Hunk raised a finger. “I think we should go check on him.”

“What’s there to see,” Keith rolled his eyes. “Pidge would’ve already cracked open his arm, and Regris has probably already sliced him down to constituent parts.”

“Wow,” Lance drawled, feeling extra-spiteful. “A four-syllable word, impressive.” He thumped the mattress with his other hand in imitation of applause.

“Fuck you,” Keith said, “I don’t need to deal with this shit.” He pushed off the floor and stalked through the door.

Yeah, so Lance didn’t have the best relationship with Keith, either. He buried his face in the pillow again. Lotor looked pointedly at the ceiling.

Hunk stared after Keith. “Did anyone tell him that dude might have information on the Kerberos mission? I feel like, maybe Keith should about know that.”

“Nope,” Lance said, voice muffled. “Didn’t get a chance to tell’im before he stomped off. Earlier, I mean. Why don’t you go do it?”

When they had gotten back, Keith disappeared into the basement without offering to help with Shiro. It was Regris who Lance talked to about preparing the medbay, and Regris who pulled Pidge away from her current project — working the mechanics of a Blade-tech stealth device — to the bionic arm.

Pidge… She'd been doing much better ever since the Blades of Marmora came knocking on their flower shop door. Her brother and father had been on the expedition that coincided with the Galra’s arrival. Ground control never heard from the Kerberos crew again, and anyway the Galra targeted Earth’s space defense capabilities first. Very soon there had been nothing to receive any transmissions from anywhere _with_. The Galaxy Garrison, civilian and UN-funded notwithstanding, still made that list. The students who survived, survived because they were in the city, partying instead of running drills. In the city, where they stayed.

And here they were, a flower shop as their cover and doing a whole lot of _nothing_ for three goddamned years. Commander Adam Warszawski only kept them on the roster out of guilt towards Keith, everyone knew.

But what _was_ Keith’s connection to Commander Warszawski and the Kerberos mission? Even Pidge didn’t know.

Speak of the devil— Pidge opened the door.

“Hey. That man you dragged in? He’s asking for you two.”

* * *

On the way down, Pidge kept throwing glances at Keith, but when Lance caught her eye and raised an eyebrow, she shook her head and stopped.

Weird.

They were walking in the abandoned sewage system. When Hunk picked out the store location, it had been because of its proximity to the road and its relative intactness. Read: can pack and run whenever they need to; won’t be crushed under rubble when they sleep. 

Then the Blades came, and in the span of two months cleaned the nearby abandoned sewer and gave them a brand-new sub-basement.

Hunk kept pace a step behind Lance, eyes fixed on the tablet in his hands. Lance picked his steps carefully, knowing Hunk was following blindly. “So, how are we doing on supplies?”

“If it’s been _logged_ right,” Hunk shot a suspicious look at Lotor, who pretended he didn’t see anything, “then we’re doing alright. Food and water projections are a bit low, seeing as we have to accommodate another adult male _and_ nurse him back to health — Lotor, d’you think Galra arenas offer the full range of human nutrition?”

“Enough to survive,” Lotor replied, glancing at them with a faint hint of amusement. “Insofar as processed sustenance units can contain catch-all vitamins and minerals.”

“Food goo,” Lance translated. “Don’t be an ass, Lotor. That dude’ll probably be shoved to us. Finders keepers, all that.”

“You mean _you_.” That was an unmistakable grin at the edge of Lotor’s lips.

“…point.” Lance pushed a hand through his hair. “I did not think this through.”

“No, you didn’t,” Hunk said. “But you gotta sit your ass down after tonight anyway, so Thace will probably assign all the housekeeping to you.”

Lance sighed. He knew he shouldn’t head out. Lance had ditched his signature blue for the Blade’s dark colors tonight, but the Galra weren’t stupid. They’d be looking for a sniper and his nest in the rooftops.

“Wait,” he grabbed Lotor’s elbow as a thought occurred to him. “The safe houses on the roofs! We have to clear them!”

His voice bounced off the circular walls and Keith and Pidge paused, looking back. 

“Regris already cleared them,” Pidge said, frowning. “But I supposed another sweep would be wise.”

“We should switch up the ground spots as well,” Keith said. And then, slowly, as though it had just came to him, “We can do a sweep of the whole sector, plant some false leads.”

“A sound idea,” Lotor said. “I’ll pull up a plan with Thace.” He swept a hand out to the front, reminding them all of what they came down for. “Shall we?” 

Keith turned first, evidently lost in thought, crossing the last few meters to the maintenance-room-turned-medbay. He opened the door in his usual way (read: rude and violent), then froze. 

Quiet enough that it didn’t echo, Pidge cursed. 

Lance frowned. What was it now? Keith always had something going on. He stepped closer to Hunk and pitched his voice down so it didn’t carry. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Hunk whispered back. He gripped the tablet nervously. “I think it’s— you know— something to do with why Commander Warszawski gives him favors.”

“What’s the Commander got to do with—” Lance didn’t get to finish.

Keith’s throat had been working this whole time, and it seemed he’s finally gathered the strength. “We thought you were dead.” His voice came out strangled and hoarse and way too vulnerable. Lance instantly felt uncomfortable, like he was intruding on some deeply personal moment.

A huffed laugh from inside, then a warm and tired voice said, “Hello, Keith.”

A clatter and a scrape. Regris ducked out of the room, tail between his legs. Keith stepped to the side to give him space, but he didn’t stop looking at the man inside.

Catching the expression on Regris’ face, Pidge pivoted on her heels and fastened a vice-like grip on Lance and Hunk’s arms, dragging them away from the door. Regris motioned for Lotor to do the same.

Keith entered the room as though in a trance. The door clicked shut behind him.

They were ten paces down the way they came when Lance could take the weird silence no more. He shrugged off Pidge’s grip. “Will someone please explain to me what is going on?”

He managed to keep his voice no louder than a whisper, but it was a close thing. He was used to his friends doing stuff he didn’t understand. His specialty as a sharpshooter usually placed him out of range of on-the-ground socialization. He was fine with that. But this? Takashi Shirogane had played a part in his personal history as well, so if they knew something he didn’t, they should spit it out.

“What he said,” Regris’ said. “Red had a _terrifying_ expression for me. Explain.”

Lotor stepped forwards, turning the little two-by-two confrontation dynamic into a circular discussion. Lance thanked him silently. “I would also like to hear about this interpersonal relationship. As the strategist I’d prefer to have _all_ the cards.”

Pidge looked around at all of them and sighed. “There—” She took off her glasses and pinched her nose. “I don’t know how to broach the subject.”

“Start from the top. You evidently know who the dude in the medbay is.” Lance crushed the strange twinge of hope in his chest. His cadet days were long past, and he ought to let shattered dreams lie, but… “Is he the pilot?”

“He’s Takashi Shirogane. The pilot, yes.”

Something twisted in Lance’s chest. He remembered Shiro’s expression in the carpark, before he and Lotor revealed themselves. Fury, grief, determination; they’d blazed across Shiro’s scarred face and made themselves at home in his eyes. He had been almost unrecognizable as the Garrison’s star pilot.

It was really much better that the past stayed in the past. Would it be more merciful if Shiro had died with the Holts? Pidge’s faraway look told Lance she was thinking along the same lines.

“Why did you bring up the Commander, Hunk?” Lance tried a different angle. 

“Oh, that’s—” Hunk looked towards the ceiling. It was his thinking face. “You remember back when we first moved here and Pidge spent all of her time in the basement?” The Blades looked blank, but Lance remembered. It was a dark time for all of them. Their work permit had barely passed, they had no way of establishing communication with anyone, and Keith, when he showed up at their backdoor with an illegal bike and a collapsable Galra-tech sword, had been so angry at the Galra they almost hadn’t been able to secure him a residential permit.

…How were they going to hide Shiro? He couldn’t stay in the sewers forever. Lance filed the thought for later.

Hunk continued. “Well, Pidge had been running a check on the Garrison’s old files, you know, to check for records of her family. There were no leads there, and then she came across—” Hunk gestured for her to take over.

She scowled. She didn’t like to be reminded of her bad phase. “Long story short, I found some files that had the Commander listed as Shiro’s emergency contact. Adam’s file was easy to find then, this was before the cyber-attack that took everything down.” She folded her arms. “I thought it was weird the Commander didn’t list any family or a legal guardian in that column, so I checked up on who the heck Takashi Shirogane was. _His_ file had the Commander as his emergency contact as well as medical proxy. At first I figured it was a friends-thing, but the Garrison had no record of them being bunk mates or teammates. They didn’t even work in the same department. The only thing the two men shared was a flight class when they were cadets.” She fell silent, biting her lip.

“So she showed all that to me and asked what I thought,” Hunk said. “And…”

Lance looked between them. “What is it? God, just spit it out!”

“The _point_ is, Lance,” Pidge shot him a venomous look. She hated being rushed, but Lance had no patience left. “Hunk and I think the Commander and Shiro had…a history.”

A baffled silence. 

“They… were classmates?” Regris offered, his tail waving to and fro. 

“Because they listed each other as emergency contact and a medical proxy?” Lotor mused, tapping a finger on his elbow. “I don’t understand.”

Pidge and Hunk exchanged exasperated looks. “The thing is, the Commander and Shiro are from the WWIII generation, right? Most were orphans, and to cover for the lack of adults, there was a lot of legal restructuring going on with guardianship. With those declarations, they’re practically each other’s family, insofar as official records that aren’t marriage go.”

“There’s more, though,” Hunk said. He was frowning in that sad-teddy-bear way he had. “We found legal guardianship papers under Shirogane’s name, for a Keith Kogane.”

“What?” Lance had barely digested the earlier information. “Wait, so—”

“Not adoption, but you know how the Garrison worked for war orphans. Like I said, lots of social restructuring.” Pidge sighed. She turned to the Blades. “Local history. Nothing to do with Galra. Just humans being violent and stupid.”

Regris nodded slowly, confusion writ across his expression. His tail thumped the ground arrhythmically. Lotor stared straight ahead, face blank, and Lance decided he didn’t want to know what the expression meant.

“So you think,” Lance said slowly, piecing it all together as he talked, “that the Commander and Shiro,” he stumbled over the shortened name, “had a _thing,_ because the Commander paid special attention to Keith because Shiro had ‘adopted’ Keith because the Commander and Shiro were in a relationship?” He paused for breath. “Because Keith was—might as well have been—their adoptive son?”

Pidge screwed up her face. Hunk rubbed his neck. 

“And you came to this conclusion way before any of _that—_ ” Lance gestured behind him, to the still-closed door of their medbay. “—happened?”

“You can see why we didn’t bring it up,” Pidge tried, after a moment of awkward silence. “It was a non-sequitur at best and baseless gossip at worst.”

Lance agreed, he did, but being left out of a realization this momentous — the Commander had tried to start a family? Shiro, the hero of his cadet days, had tried to start a family? Keith was _that_ close to— Lance closed his eyes. Breathed, and sent another thanks to Lotor for thinking of installing air filters. Regris had brushed it off as a wasteful expanse. Thace hadn’t remembered until Lotor brought it up.

Never mind. Keith always did seem to have everything just… given to him. 

Then Lance said, “You did so much trawling, Pidge, did you find anything on Veronica?” Only Veronica had worked at the Garrison. He had no idea how to contact any of his other family members, so he didn’t want to think about any of them.

Pidge couldn’t meet his gaze. “Only the Garrison employment papers.”

Lance tried to squash the small bubble of jealousy. Keith wasn’t the only one of them to have lost family—but his just had to _land in his lap—_

“Hey, guys?” 

Keith was standing a little ways away from them, as though he was afraid to approach. He looked tired and worn and even in the light of the faint electric light bulbs they called ‘lamps’ Lance could see his eyebags. “Sorry I freaked out just now. I already briefed Shiro on what we’re doing, and he has something on Sendak to tell us.” He turned and went back to the door of the medbay, which was propped open.

Regris and Lotor went first. Pidge went next, still not meeting Lance’s eyes. 

He tried. He tried _so hard_ to not think badly of her actions. She had her family to find, and Lance couldn’t fault her for not trying as hard for _his_ family. 

No blood relation, and he wouldn’t even know a Pidge Gunderson if they hadn’t been assigned to the same unit.

When Hunk passed him, he clapped Lance on the shoulder in wordless support, and Lance wanted to kick himself. How could he be so selfish? Hunk lost his family too — and they were on the complete opposite side of Earth. When the Galra descended, the global communications infrastructure was among the first to go.

Hunk was hurting, too. Hunk didn’t know what happened to his family and had no way of finding out. Lance mentally whacked himself.

“Lance?” Lotor called, and Lance realized the rest were filing into the medbay. He was the only one who hadn’t moved.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat and jogged the last few steps. “Yeah, sorry.”

(Lotor gave him a weird look as he passed, and Lance felt a little lighter. He could always count on the Blades to be confused at human social cues.)

* * *

Keith’s visit had knocked the two masked members completely out of Shiro's head.

For one, Keith was alive! For two, —Adam was alive.

When the Kerberos ship was approaching Earth, strange structures had shown up on Shiro’s radar, pieces of infrastructure in orbit that shouldn’t have been there. Ground control had been silent, too silent, but the scientists and their cargo he carried in the back didn’t need to be worried on such things. They had been gone a full year, after all, perhaps the Garrison had scrounged up more funds from somewhere and implemented some of their plans. 

_Yeah, that’s all_ , Shiro distinctly remembered thinking, right up until he saw the gigantic battlecruiser hovering above the American continent.

And then he didn’t have space to think about anything except survival.

Now, though, as humans filed into the room — _humans_ , a part of him sighed, relaxing. _This isn’t a dream_. — he was forcibly reminded of all that he had left behind on Earth when he chose the stars.

His surrogate brother. His fiancé.

Was it appropriate, to be glad that Adam was in an unknown location? To use the rebellion as an excuse to avoid talking to him a little longer?

Another part of him _was_ glad. _Commander_ , Adam had made _commander_. He wanted to laugh. _What,_ he imagined saying to Adam, _no one around to promote you the last leg to Captain?_

The last two figures to enter caught his eye. The taller one with a long messy braid of white hair pulled the door shut.

Shiro turned to Keith, who had parked himself at the edges of the bed. He tried to keep the raw curiosity out of his voice, but in a confined space such as this, nothing stayed concealed for long. “Who’re—they?”

Keith answered without looking. “The Galra is Lotor, the other one’s Lance.” 

Shiro glanced at them again. Lotor quirked his lips humorlessly. Lance folded his arms and looked uncomfortable.

“Why’s he still in those disgusting fatigues?” Lance demanded, then put his hand over his mouth as though to keep the rest of his words inside. He scowled.

“We—” Pidge began, then sighed loudly. She dropped into her chair and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Later. Let’s do introductions first. I do infiltration and tech maintenance, Regris covers the Galra and space stuff.”

“I am also in charge of equipment and training,” Regris supplied, picking up a bellflower and eating it. “You all are terrible at energy-based weaponry.” 

“Hi, Hunk here,” said a large man in orange. He smiled warmly and waved. In his other hand was a tablet. “I’m the flowerboy. I man the shop and keep the Galra happy with their peonies and poppies, so I don’t go into the field very often. I also do upkeep on the getaway vehicles! My mum’s a mechanic.” He grinned. 

“You cover supplies as well, don’t be humble.” Lance rolled his eyes. “I’m the sniper.”

There was a slight pause, during which Keith raised his eyebrows and Lance, catching it, nudged Lotor, who started. “Ah, my apologies, unspoken Terran customs are difficult to discern.” He smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Shiro decided he didn’t like the cold, purple gaze. Lotor didn’t seem to blink. “I run point, usually with Pidge and Lance.”

Everyone looked at Keith. It was comforting, to know that Keith’s stubborn streak hadn’t changed.

“I work alone,” he finally said, arms crossed tight. 

“Yeah, and you totally didn’t need me to cover your ass,” Lance retorted. He leaned forwards, hands fisted where they dug into his sides. “You’d better be grateful Thace is so goddamned accommodating.”

Keith’s face darkened in an instant. “If _you_ hadn’t given us false intel—”

“ _False—_ ,” Lance repeated, incredulity pushing his voice up, “ _you_ were the asshole who charged in before I finished the briefing and you blame _me_ for—” 

“Enough!” Pidge looked thunderous. “Do you two have to do this _every_ time?”

Lance scoffed, leaning back. Incidentally, it brought him closer to Lotor and further away from everyone else.

Was there something…?

Keith said nothing, merely shifted his weight and rolled his shoulders, as though to slough off the interaction.

“We were here to, er, talk about Sendak?” Hunk said, nervously, into the silence. “Right? Shiro, you had something for us?”

The name brought all the horrors of the arena rushing back to him. A teeth-shattering hum; the shadow of giant arm; glowing claws and a rope of light, snapping and twisting, too fast for him to dodge.

Being pummeled into the sand, again and again, as a sadistic voice laughed.

“Shiro?” Keith had a hand on his shoulder.

Shiro snapped to.

Keith’s eyes were full of concern. “If it’s still too fresh, you can tell us later.”

“No!” He almost leapt off the medical bed. Keith staggered back a few steps, surprised and a little hurt. “Sorry,” Shiro said, quieter. “Sendak would’ve already sent out search parties. He’s paranoid and vicious and he won’t stop until he’s found you and crushed the corpse himself.”

Shiro breathed through his nose, clinging onto the smell of antiseptic and metal and something sweet and clean. “I fought him, once. Before this.” He touched the dismantled arm. “I had already racked up a winning streak, and Sendak wanted to test my mettle.” _My Champion!_ the jeering voice crowed against a gleeful crowd. _Come, show me your worth! Convince me I should not kill you for your desertion!_ “His arm, it will be up to date with the latest druid technology. It grants him near infinite range—” _Run and hide, little ape, I shall find you and rip you from your mortal shell!_ “—unmatched strength,—” Pillars shook and shuddered as the claw sank again and again into their foundations and _ripped_ “—and the grip can crush anything he gets a hold of.” His dominant arm, shattered.

Shiro needed to steady his breathing, but he didn’t dare to close his eyes. Even the shaded lamps were starting to resemble a glowing red eye. 

Keith sat down on the bed, pressing close, and Shiro was grateful for the human warmth.

“So, should we set hacking the druid database as a possible objective?” Hunk broke the silence, a stylus in hand and tablet raised. “Dig up Sendak’s medical records.”

“Doable,” Regris said, tapping a claw against his chin. “Though it might turn out to be stored physically. I wouldn’t put it past the witch to be wary of…” He clicked a claw on the second computer. “These.”

“Sendak wouldn’t expect us to go back so soon after that botched attempt,” Hunk added, a gleam taking this eyes. “If we plan this fast enough, we can dodge the search radius! They search out here, we’re there. They turn back to sweep their base, we’re out!”

“Wait, we’re moving?” Lance frowned. “But we haven’t restocked!”

Lotor stepped into the center of the room and raised his hands. The others fell silent, watching. “The plan has promise. I shall prioritize it when I speak to Thace. Shiro, how long were you the Champion?”

“Three years,” Shiro replied. He wasn’t sure if he’d be allowed, but… “If I may, could you include me in your strategies? I would like to—”

“Absolutely not,” Lotor said, as sharp and cutting as any sword Shiro had faced. “You have been the reigning Champion in the only arena on this continent, which means the arena has to provide good shows, which means you had survived the worst the Empire could scrounge up in this quadrant.” He gestured to the metal arm. “You have received cutting edge augmentation. You are intimately familiar with the fighting styles of the upper military echelons. Your advice will be invaluable to our plans, but that must be the extent of your involvement. I see the fury in your eyes and I empathize, but I cannot in good conscience let you in on the plans of a rebel unit when we have yet to determine the cause of your good luck in the escape.” Lotor quirked that humorless smile again. “Until our team has scanned and cleared your druid-arm, you are confined to the underground.”

A violent creaking sound— Keith shot up, right into Lotor’s face, anger in every line of his body. All told, his voice came out admirably controlled. “You are not keeping Shiro here.”

“With all due respect for your skills, Kogane, you have not been given command here. Not by Thace, not by your commander,” Lotor said, turning to stare impassively at Keith. “Sit down.”

Keith glared back, and Shiro recognized that glare with shock. It was the glare Keith had thrown at James Griffin when the latter mentioned parents. It was the glare that said Keith would take no more of whatever had been thrown his way, righteous or not.

His fists were clenched, and for a second Shiro feared they would swing.

“But Lotor,” Lance said, and Lotor broke the staring contest to glance back. Keith rocked back on his heels and stuffed his hands into his jacket. “Think about it for a second. We really can’t keep Shiro down here all the time, he’s not our prisoner. If our location is going to be compromised by some tracer bug Pidge or Regris hasn’t caught yet, it’s not going to be mitigated by several layers of dirt, is it?” Lance spread his hands, half placating, half matter-of-fact. “We can let him wander about the shop, maybe give him greenhouse duty. So long as he’s not seen, it’s fine, right? We’ll get him a beanie and jacket and stick the arm in a sling, it’ll be fine.”

Lotor smirked. “You seem to have it all figured out. I’ll leave it to you, then?”

Lance blinked, then scowled again, but it was good-natured. “You were just waiting for that, weren’t you? Shoving responsibility off onto me…”

“What was it you said earlier, ‘finders keepers’? I found that philosophy highly appealing.”

“You—ugh.” Lance leaned back against the door and knocked his head into it. “Fine. Guess this means I’m off the active duty roster for good huh, Hunk?”

“Huh,” Hunk echoed, stylus in hand. “Nice way to bait yourself into _voluntarily_ sitting on your ass. Thanks, Lotor, you saved me a lot of time.”

“Pleasure,” Lotor replied. Then he raised his voice, addressing all of them. “Very well. Such shall be the plan: Regris will defang the arm and make it suitable for rebel use; Pidge will come up with a plan for obtaining the druid-records of Sendak, electronic or otherwise; Hunk will oversee the redirection and resupply of the outposts and safehouses; Keith, you report to Hunk; Lance will see to Shiro’s needs and help him acclimate to house-arrest; I will bring the information gained here to Thace. We shall reconvene on sun-up. Dismissed!”

A flurry of movement and a burst of conversation. 

Lotor swept out of the room, leaving the door open. 

Pidge was pointing at the computers, speaking to Regris, who nodded and clicked his fingers on the tabletop and ate bellflowers. She left after a few sentences, taking the second computer with her. Lance walked over and began asking Regris something about the arm, gesturing at the scattered parts. Hunk tapped his tablet and came over to speak to Keith, asking about patrol routes and ease of access.

“We really should, er, move this upstairs, where the map is,” Hunk said, about two sentences in. His eyes darted to Shiro then back to Keith, gauging. “D’you mind if we went now?”

Keith hesitated. 

Shiro poked Keith’s back with a knee, gently. “Go do your job, Keith. I’m in good hands.”

Keith threw a scathing look at Lance, who resolutely did not look over, then stood up. “I’ll come visit whenever I have free time.”

Shiro managed half a smile before he was distracted by Regris, who had begun a complicated process of detaching the arm from the base with a strange combination of magnets, claws, and the liberal application of screwdrivers.

When he glanced back up, Keith and Hunk had left.

His strength left with Keith. Shiro slumped backwards, the sudden movement earning a hiss from Regris.

“What are you doing?” Shiro asked, but his heart wasn’t in it. He didn’t much care, now that he had said his piece and they knew what they were going up against, who they had angered. When Keith told him they had tried to assassinate _Sendak_ , his heart just about leapt out his mouth. 

“Detaching the arm so _you_ can move around while I inspect the system,” Regris replied, slightly accusatory. “And here I was hoping to wrangle an arena story or two out of you, Champion.”

“Didn’t you already get a story?” Lance cut in, before Shiro could do anything else than process the sentence. Gods above, he needed to rest. “A pretty juicy one to share at those taverns you frequent. The Champion versus the Warlord! And if you finish this job quickly, you might even catch the last dregs of beer before they close in the morning.”

Regris rolled his eyes. It was alarming up close, to see lizard-eyes emote in a human way. “A job such as this? It’ll take me at _least_ a day. Get me some of those red ones, would you?”

“You sure have weird tastes. Lotor and Thace don’t like to eat flowers,” Lance said, tone light, but when Shiro caught his eye — Lance looked away immediately — he saw that the humor didn’t reach them.

“They do not appreciate gourmet cuisine either, do they?” Regris scoffed. Lance huffed a laugh.

One more screech of claws on metal, and the last part of the arm detached, leaving only a thin slice of metal still connected to Shiro’s arm — the base. 

It was unnervingly smooth. Shiro looked at it for a second, then lowered his arm. It was a surreal experience. Judging from their expressions, Regris and Lance had the same thought.

“Alright, this is way too weird.” Lance threw his hands up and rolled the chair back a few steps. “You sure this druid magiteck stuff won’t have any remote effects?”

“Druids have not yet discovered a way to manipulate biorhythms and leave their subject alive, so I think not, but I’ll still run a check.” Regris set down the arm and began attaching wires to the base. They were magnetic, clicking into place. They…tickled.

“Yeah, you do that, I’ve got something else to do.” Lance stood up. “Be right back,” he said, to the ceiling, and ducked out of the room without a backwards glance.

He hadn’t looked at Shiro once since their gazes — accidentally, it must be — met, and Shiro was starting to wonder if he had offended Lance somehow. 

* * *

Lance practically fled the medbay. His heart was jackrabbiting so hard, he was _sure_ Regris heard it. 

(All the Galra had mad senses, and with the added technological assistance, it was impossible to hide from them. Small wonder those military operations during the early days failed.)

He didn’t slam the door shut, but it was close. He slid down to the floor. What was _wrong_ with him? Shiro had been his school crush, yes, but those days were over! Gone, dead, _dust!_

A few minutes alone in a room with Shiro who was still so _obviously_ affected by whatever horrible things had happened in the arena — all those years! Lance’s heart ached just thinking about it— and suddenly Lance was a teenager again? 

Christ. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Get _over_ it! Be professional. You can do this. You got over that stupid useless crush on Lotor’s hair, you can get over this stupid useless re-crush on Shiro’s goddamn _smile_.

* * *

Watching Regris turn the druid arm over in his spindly fingers was a strange experience. Metal or flesh, it was Shiro’s arm, and without it, he felt exposed, unbalanced. He had been drugged for the attachment surgery, and he had never seen the connecting port before.

It was also his only weapon, deactivated or not, and being in a confined space with a Galra was starting to get on his nerves.

“Nasty cut you’ve got there,” Regris said, suddenly. 

Shiro glanced up.

Regris’ slitted eyes were trained on his face, but they held only curiosity. In fact… were his pupils a little larger than before? Did they change, like a cat’s?

“How did you survive that without getting your eyes clawed out?” Regris pressed. 

“I— dodged.” Shiro replied, lamely. The scar came early in his imprisonment. In those days, his fights and his days blurred into each other. He couldn’t remember the exact fight that gave him the distinct scar across his nose, only the splash of pain and the fury of his resulting attack. He remembered thinking, _how will Adam recognize me now?_

Regris hummed. He hadn’t blinked. Slowly, he said, “I know you don’t trust us yet. That’s understandable. None of _them_ ,” he waved a finger above his head, indicating a nebulous ‘up there’, “trusted us when we first came, either. Red in particular was raring to take our heads off. You don’t have to worry about interacting with us. Thace keeps to himself. Lotor works with no one but Blue. I stay down here. So long as you stay in the shop, you won’t run into us.”

It was oddly considerate, and Shiro was thrown by such a thing coming from Galra. Logically, he knew that not all Galra were — the way those that treated him in the arena were, but experiencing the difference was still startling. By the time he thought of at least saying ‘thank you’, Regris had turned his attention back to the arm and the computer screen.

Soft clinks of metal and the patter of computer keys filled the room; Regris seemed completely at ease, but even though Shiro made a conscious effort, he couldn’t relax. So when Regris reached to detach the magnetic wires connected to the arm-port, eyes still fixed on his screen, Shiro nearly jumped out of his skin. 

Slightly desperately, he stared at the door, willing Lance to—

“How long till the arm’s finished?” Lance said, kicking open the door then catching it before it slammed into the wall, maneuvering through an oblong bag. He also had a bowl of red flowers. Are those [ camellias](https://www.flowermeaning.com/camellia-flower-meaning/)? 

“At least two vargas,” Regris said. He sniffed the air, then looked up. “One and a half if you give those flowers _now_.”

“You’re like a kid,” Lance said, shaking his head and setting the bowl down.

Regris snatched up a red flower, and, biting on one petal, began sticking wires into the druid-arm. It was the apparent end of that particular interaction, because Lance turned to Shiro.

“Sorry for taking a while, but I’m almost done. I just need to drop this off,” Lance patted the bag with affection, “at the armory then we can sort out your living arrangements. Do you want to wait here or—”

Shiro almost tumbled off the bed in his haste to leave. “It’s no problem, I’ll come with.”

Lance shot him an amused look. “Alright.” He glanced at Regris, who waved him off. “Follow me, then.”

They left the room, and Shiro had his first look at the hideout. 

It was cold. The lighting was sporadic. Wiring was taped across the circular walls, and three-quarters of the way up, lightbulbs hung from the wires like drooping flowers, each casting a paltry circle of light. There was only a handful of them, scattered and shining dimly, and they led away into the gloom. Lance followed his gaze and sighed. “We use our own generators, they’re a little underpowered. The grid is pretty much non-existent, not that we could’ve stole this much power and gotten away with it anyway.”

“Galra rationings?” Shiro asked, looking back at the warm glow of the medbay, now only a sliver of orange under a door. He’d heard talk of this from the officials who sometimes hung around the stadium’s halls (for whatever reason; they could’ve been sponsors, too). Yet another way to control humanity.

“Yeah. Only given to licensed shop owners. The flower shop has power, even if the heating cuts off now and then when we shower too long, but of course we can’t use that power for this place. All the greenhouse plants would be ruined, for one, and then we’d lose our livelihoods.” Lance hoisted the bag and gave a humourless laugh. “You should see the training area. We use _candles_. Regris once complained it was so archaic he would devolve if he spent too long in there.”

They turned a corner in a shadowy area — Shiro hadn’t even seen there was a detour — and Lance pushed open a door to reveal pitch black. He stepped in, and Shiro followed, hesitantly. The door swung shut. Shiro didn’t think the darkness could get any heavier, but the air here wasn’t ventilated as it was outside, and in the stale and stifling darkness, he was suddenly back in his room at the arena, with its non-stop clang of sentry footsteps and the inevitable _swish_ as his doors open to admit the pair of guards that would drag him to the sand pit that day.

Then— light. 

Glaring, purple-white, it radiated from a point on the wall, where Lance had mounted some sort of rectangle. Unlike the lights in the main corridor (as Shiro thought of it), this one was strong enough to light up the whole room. Lance laid his package down on a metal table on the side.

Shiro gave himself a second to breathe, then looked around. 

_This must be the armory_ , he thought, as Lance opened the bag and began taking out gun parts.

“Don’t touch anything,” Lance warned, tone casual, posture anything but. “This is where we keep the sci-fi guns. The Blades, despite their name, only really have one type of knife — those luxite blades that shapeshift. Oh,” he added, catching Shiro’s puzzled expression, “tell Keith to show you that some time. He’s a baby Blade! Got baptized and everything.”

While Shiro tried to process _that_ bit of information, Lance went on. “Well, not that the Blades are a religion. You know what, bad analogy. Point is! Super high-tech room full of deadly weapons! Don’t touch anything, in case you activate something and it blows your head off.”

As he talked, he went around the room, returning equipment and picking up a case, which he placed on the table. He sat, facing the torch, unzipped the oblong bag from before to reveal a rifle, and began disassembling in quick, practiced moves. “Give me ten minutes,” he said, reaching inside the case. “You can ask questions.”

In the purplish light, his movements and the gleam of the black gun barrel took on a dream-like quality. For a second, Shiro just watched, and a strange sense of loss washed over him.

Humanity had come so far from its bloody history. Military funds were funneled into space exploration. Armaments had been disarmed and technology was given to aerospace engineering. Ambitions turned to the stars, and Shiro had been so sure they were leaving behind their conflict-ridden pasts for a brighter, more peaceful future. He once saw himself as a symbol of that change. But now, someone who once had a chance at the stars was earth-bound, stripping guns and living day-to-day underground, cloaked in shadows and fear.

“Were you a cadet?” he asked, and Lance paused for a moment too long.

“Yes,” Lance replied.

“As a … mechanic?”

“A cargo pilot.”

“Oh,” Shiro said, “did you ever take Adam’s classes on—”

“Advanced flight instruction?” Lance kept his eyes on the gun, and he took apart the next piece with a little bit more force than necessary. “No. That was for combat class only.

The silence was heavy, and Shiro regretted bringing it up. If Lance had been a cargo pilot, it explained why Shiro did not remember him from the Garrison. He only did talks for the incoming batch— a glorified recruitment session for the astronautics department, really— and field tests in the Garrison schools, where he found Keith. Adam had more contact with the cadets. 

He had hoped to find a connection with Lance through his past, but it seemed all it did was bring up old hurt.

Casting around for a different topic, he asked, “Is the lighting Galra-tech, too?”

“Yeah, a light-stone.” Lance shrugged one shoulder. “They aren’t very creative on the naming, but it’s quintessence-powered.”

“Why wasn’t this used on the outside?” 

“Limited resources. We aren’t the only cell out here. The Blades have to cover the entire Galra Empire and they generally steal their tech from the Empire. A few crates missing here and there from the supply lines across several galaxies isn’t a big issue, but it’s impossible to steal whole shipments and get away with it.” Lance sighed, snapping together the gun and setting aside the cleaning equipment. He paused there a moment, staring at the Earth-made gun. “They might be technologically superior aliens, but they’re fighting a guerrilla war and they know it. Ergo, we are fighting a guerrilla war.”

He stood up, packing everything away. 

“We get some high-tech toys, but Thace usually confiscates everything from the others. I get to keep this,” he gestured to the room, “because I’m the sharpshooter and I require equipment. That’s all.”

He unhooked the stone from its sconce and the room went dark again. This time, Shiro caught a glimpse of Lance, stretching up, and the lines he made in the Blades suit he still hadn’t changed out of were—

“Shoo, you’re in the way.” A hand nudged his elbow, and Shiro started, taking two steps to the right. 

The measly light of human light bulbs lit the way out, and Lance barely cast a silhouette. “C’mon,” he said, “this suit is itchy. I want a shower.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> full disclosure I did not watch that episode where Lance’s family showed up. I’m sad that I missed it, but if I have to watch Allura being shoveled into the love-interest role for one more second I’ll throw up.
> 
> also I know nothing about guns and their cleaning thereof. So it's all going to be rather handwavey.


	3. circulatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There _was_ a time and place. Didn't any of you see that tornado?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't do gardening, so any flower-talk here is crowd-sourced. We have our first carnation-mention!! The striped carnation that inspired all this will show up soon, I swear. /s
> 
> The art included in this chapter is done by the great and multi-talented [inkbadger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkbadger)! (I'll add her art handle when she .. makes one.) She whipped it up on the spot, you guys, she's amazing.

Outside the second-floor window, the sky brightened slowly. Lance paused in his turning out of sheets and watched the stars wink out. When the sky hit ink-spill blue, there was a knocking on the door. 

“Lance?” Hunk appeared at the doorway, backlit, only a silhouette. “They’re getting ready to leave. Thace will want to speak to you afterwards, so…” He glanced at the half-made bed, sighed. “Come down for an early breakfast?”

Lance instantly felt silly. What did he hope to accomplish, hiding upstairs like a scared rabbit? He couldn’t leap out the window onto the roofs, Sendak still wasn’t dead, and Shiro was still in their basement, sleeping in Lotor’s spare civilian clothes from back when they tried to give the Blades human disguises. With a little more force than necessary, Lance tucked in the corners of the sheet then straightened. 

Halfway down the stairs Hunk said, “He’s going to sleep up there?”

Confused, Lance said, “Who?”

“Shiro.” Hunk skipped the creaky step and continued, “Not that I disagree — we are quite pressed for space — but wasn’t your whole suggestion to keep him _unseen_?”

“Wh—” Lance said, then caught on. “Oh, no, it’s for me. _I’m_ moving up. He can have my bunk, or Keith can have my bunk, whichever. I’ll let them sort it out.”

“But you hate dust. Every time you get cleaning duty you go on a whole tirade about it and proper skincare. Now I find you marinating in that stuff.”

Lance opened his mouth to defend himself and his beauty regimen (the world might be ending and skincare would _still_ be important to him, dammit), but he couldn’t say he was trying to avoid Shiro, could he? Answering that truthfully would only lead to more introspective questions that he didn’t have the energy for. He shrugged. “Yeah, well, too bad for me.”

With most of the high-rise in the area knocked down, the second-floor windows were in full view of the sky and road, making the upper floor much too exposed. The nominal bedroom was upstairs, but none of them slept there. They kept up the appearance, just in case the Galra checked this sort of stuff. They made a good show of it: the lights were turned on and off, people passed through on a semi-fixed schedule (making sure to be seen through the windows), and there was a roster for who was doing that month’s clean-up to get rid of the dust.

It kept them occupied during downtime, like now. As a plus, Lance _wanted_ himself to be caught on whatever sentry-camera the Galra used. He wanted an alibi, he wanted to be predictable. 

Lance avoided the creaky part of the last step on habit, then made a mental note to tell Shiro about it. 

Hunk shook his head, and led him into the kitchen. Hosting a full turnout of the cell, the tiny room was _packed._

“—clear?” They caught the tail-end of Thace’s instructions. 

As they entered, Lance distantly noted the comedic potential in Regris’ perch on top of the counter and Pidge’s curled form beneath the table, but his attention was mostly taken up by the fact that Keith and Pidge had both changed into Blade uniforms. But he didn’t laugh.

“Regris will take command. Once you have retreated, report to him. I do not expect to see any of you before nightfall.” Thace regarded the four of them — Lotor, as usual, looked resplendent under the orange kitchen light, damp hair a halo — and nodded grimly. “The usual Blade protocols apply. _No_ heroics.” The last was directed towards Keith, who activated his mask in response.

“I’ll watch out, Thace.” Regris’ tail whipped on the counter top, then he hopped off. “Right-o. Off we go.”

Three masks flickered into place. 

“You might as well equip us with cyanide capsules,” Pidge grumbled, crawling out from under the table.

“The suit has built-in self-destructive capabilities,” Lotor said, mildly. He inclined his head in Lance’s direction. It was a of _good luck_ before a mission, even though the Blades didn't believe in luck.

“The suit has built-in _what_ capabilities?!” 

Lance was pretty sure Pidge was full-grown, so to speak, and seeing her bolt upright only to be no higher than Lotor’s shoulder was just the dose of morning amusement Lance needed. He nodded back, then went to make himself a cup of coffee.

He didn’t watch Regris lead them out, and he didn’t look up when Keith lingered in the doorway.

Lance wasn’t interested in anything Keith had to say, and he refused to indulge Keith’s dramatic streak. This was _not_ a suicide mission, and Regris would keep Keith’s hot-headed tendencies in line. Whatever Keith wanted, it could wait till they returned.

The machine huffed and creaked and sputtered, and for a moment Lance thought _this is it this is the day this machine gives out on us_ but no. As the blessed coffee finally streamed into his mug, he heard Hunk say to Thace, “Did they even sleep?” And the reply, “They had a power-nap, and I gave them each a stick of quintessence.”

A stick of quintessence was a space-tech-level dose of sense-heightening packed into the size of a one-use skincare capsule. They were also _hard_ to come by; Lance had only seen two tubes of the stuff ever pass through Hunk’s lists. 

(He’d only been approved for its use _once_ : a few months back, Thace had received the rare word ahead of time about a docking ship with high-priority passengers they absolutely _needed_ to eliminate. So Lance was set up in one of the destroyed buildings, a comm link in his ear, and told to wait for the ship to pull up, to break the capsule over the exposed skin of his hands, to hold fire until everyone has disembarked and — leave no one alive. Lance expected something like a battalion emptying out of the purple ship, but in the end he simply took aim at three Galra: a slight, lizard-hybrid, a blue-tinged humanoid, and a large, fur-covered one.

Through the magnifying power of the scope and the time-dilating effects of the quintessence, he had clearly seen the second’s blue lipstick and blue hair and blue scalp splatter across the asphalt; if he closed his eyes and thought about it, he could still see the shock in the third’s square pupils as she realized what her sisters-in-arms had become, in front of her. He tried to never think about the lizard-girl’s quickly-drying corpse. 

Later, after the shakes and the vomiting and the bone-deep ache had gotten better, he learned they were the High Priestess’ most dangerous agents, and although one hadn’t been on that ship, it had been a big step in knocking down her power in court. Perhaps she’d lose favor. Perhaps if she did, the Empire would stop developing genocidal technology.)

In short, this mission had become a Big Deal.

Hunk sighed, echoing the weariness Lance felt. Neither of them had properly rested, either, but that was normal. “We should get the shop ready.”

“That would be wise.” Thace clasped his hands behind his back and faced Lance, who took a bracing gulp of coffee and a steadying breath. “I have taken over Regris’ duties — he has pronounced the druid arm safe for re-attachment, and I will conduct the final checks before calling on you.”

“Right,” Lance said, fighting the urge to stand to attention. _He_ wasn’t a Blade, and he didn’t want to enlist. Semantics was important with Thace; another of the aliens’ strange quirks. “Anything else?”

“The agents will be returning, latest, by evening. I expect you to be ready for all potentialities; Hunk will brief you on the details of their mission and the adequate responses.” Without waiting for a reply he turned to Hunk. “A correspondence from the human resistance force should come in the morning; I entrust its response to you. The receiving frequency remains the same, but communicate its change in two days.”

“Alright, sir,” Hunk said, also struggling not to snap to attention. Garrison cadets weren’t entirely trained in military fashion, but Thace inspired a militaristic discipline that, coincidentally or not, he looked for in recruits. And Thace was very happy to recruit.

Keith had been as eager to sign up. No one had known how long the Blades were going to stay at the time, and it seemed Keith did not mind if the Galra upped and left the next day and took him with them. Up till today, Lance suspected that had been Keith’s unspoken plan.

“Good. See to it.” Thace left the room.

In the resulting silence, Lance and Hunk could clearly hear the mechanical footsteps of the patrolling sentries (which would by now be a street away if their routes hadn’t changed; they did, every three weeks or so). 

Hunk sighed. “I’ll make breakfast. You clean the counter and prepare the front.”

“Sure.” Lance grabbed a cloth and turned on the faucet to wet it. “Don’t forget to bring a tray down for Shiro, and don’t be seen.”

* * *

Shiro woke up in stages.

First he heard a rhythmic guitar, and wondered which one of Adam’s friends were over. He saw bunk beds, and wondered why a gathering was happening in the cramped Garrison common rooms.

Then he noticed an odd chronometer on the bedside table, round and purple and its numbers in hologram, the _07:25_ floating an inch above a matte-black screen. As he watched, they flickered, then the _25_ morphed into a _26_. The tray of pancakes beside it had long since gone cold. 

From upstairs: a laugh; a murmured line of music; the ringing of a shop-bell. “Come again!” a different voice from the singer's said, and in response a chirpy voice replied, “Of course, honey-bear, I wouldn’t be able to stay away from my little songbird for my _life_.”

Shiro broke out in a cold sweat, and realized where he was.

That was Ezor’s voice. Ezor, druid-trained assassin, right hand of the Witch, last of the Old Guard.

Shiro scrambled up from the lower bunk he had been lying on, grabbing at the edge for balance, having forgotten he no longer had a right arm. Lance told him it was Keith’s bed, and no one was around, which meant they had left for that mission. 

The singing had stopped.

As Shiro realized that, footsteps came from outside the door, and Lance came in, dressed in civilian clothing, a guitar in hand.  
  
The hoodie looked soft, worn, and comfortable just at a glance. Along with baggy jeans and sneakers, Shiro was vividly reminded of the fact that Lance was still, for all that he appeared older, just out of his teens. Civilian clothing smoothed away the palpable stress of last night, when Lance had held himself rigid, every stress line a fault of the Galra invasion.

Lance set down the guitar and glanced at his watch, humming to himself. He hadn’t noticed Shiro, and Shiro suddenly wanted it to stay that way. Ignoring the Galra wouldn't make them go away, but perhaps he could give Lance a few seconds more of reprieve. 

Then Lance glanced up, and their eyes met. 

Caught, Shiro’s mind blanked— _his eyes are very blue_ , he thought— 

“Mornin’,” Lance said, and he glanced towards where Shiro knew the door to the sub-basement lay hidden. Then he crossed the room. “Sleep well? No uncomfortable knife-shaped lumps in the mattress?”

The basement was very cramped. In trying to give Lance enough space to pass, Shiro’s back pressed uncomfortably into the metal frames of the ladders and the upper bunk. It took him a second to catch the reference — it was Keith’s bunk, and Keith liked knives… “Best sleep I’ve had so far. Keith … doesn’t have duties in the shop?” He managed a smile, watching Lance stop at the side table. 

“His presence kills plants. We’ve barred him from the greenhouse.” Lance's fingers flitted across the table, restless, and he made a minuscule frown at the plate of untouched pancakes. “You want these reheated? Hunk makes the best pancakes.”

“Oh, sure—”

“Sweet. Go wash up. I’ll wait at the stairs.”

Without another word, Lance picked up the plate and left. The guitar was still in the room. 

Shiro blinked a few times.

 _Okay_ , he thought, and went into the bathroom.

When he emerged, feeling refreshed, it was Hunk who greeted him at the stairway, not Lance.

“Hey!” Hunk said, cheery. “Lance is taking over for me at the front. We swap around, do shifts, make sure we all show our faces in the shop. Keeps suspicion off us, Pidge says. I dunno how well that works, but no one’s come barreling down our door so far.”

He led the way up the stairs. They came out at one end of a sparse corridor. The staircase continued up; in front of them the corridor stretched, a spill of daylight at the other end.

“Is that—” Shiro pointed. 

“Yep!” Hunk said. “That’s the front of the shop. It takes up most of the space so the other rooms are a bit squished. I hope you aren’t claustrophobic.” Hunk walked to the first door, and pointed. “The layout’s pretty compact. Kitchen here, bathroom the door opposite, and that one’s the storeroom for the seeds and soil. The last one’s the storefront, as you can see.”

The doorbell chimed, and Lance’s voice rang out, just as clear. “Welcome to Galactic Gardens, space on Earth!”

Hunk passed a hand over his eyes. Shiro raised an eyebrow and wondered if he should laugh.

“It’s- It’s terrible. We sound like a sanitarium,” Hunk sighed, exasperated and fond. “It’s not even good-terrible. It’s cheesy as hell and Lance loves to say it every chance he gets because he _knows_ we hate it.”

Shiro decided to be tactful. “ _Do_ you have space plants?”

“We have a couple of Galra favorites in the greenhouse,” Hunk said. “Lance takes care of most of them, because Ezor likes him and some flowers are keyed to her genetic code. She's some sort of DNA chameleon.”

“—What?” Shiro stared at Hunk. “You have the— what?” Do they know who Ezor was?

“Not that we can do anything with it,” Hunk huffed, going into the kitchen and flipping on the light. 

It was surprisingly homely. A thin, foldable round table barely enough to seat three in the center, covered in a red-and-white checkerboard tablecloth; a grey countertop wrapped around the room with matching grey cabinets; they had exactly one stovetop, one electric kettle, and one coffee machine; a discolored fridge was tucked in a corner, with a faded grocery list pinned on it with a red magnet, like a scouts badge. The scarcity of their belongings made the space seem bigger, but as Hunk went over to the microwave and Shiro followed him in, ...the kitchen was really, _really_ small.

“If anything happens to Ezor, who do you think they’ll suspect?” Hunk continued, shaking his head. “It won’t even be ‘suspicion’. They’ll laser right through our shop and then that’ll be it. Although, you should go see the plants, they’re quite the sight. We’ve a whole section dedicated to genetic-flowers.” He hummed tunelessly, eyes on the orange glow of the microwave but not seeing it. “Sometimes I wonder what the Galra do with the flowers they buy.”

Then the machine went _ding_ and Hunk whisked out the plate of pancakes. At Shiro’s skeptical look, he said, “They won’t be mushy, I swear!”

And they weren’t. 

Hunk set down a bottle of pancake syrup on the table. Shiro, finding himself unexpectedly ravenous, practically inhaled the food. When was the last time he ate anything that didn’t come out of a machine? Before he boarded Kerberos, perhaps? Or even before that. Adam wasn’t the best cook and neither was he. 

“You’re gonna be ok if I leave you alone?” Hunk asked. “I need to be at the front.”

Shiro nodded. He was starting to feel an emotional episode coming on, and he wasn’t sure he felt ready to show that side of himself to Hunk. 

“You can use anything in here,” Hunk gestured to the entire room. “But don’t go up the stairs, and try to keep out of sight.” Hunk shot him two thumbs-ups, then ducked out of the kitchen.

Shiro watched him go, and finally noticed no lights were on. The kitchen window curtains were drawn. Flower-print and translucent, they let in muted sunlight and a strip of brightness — it slanted across the room and across the circular table. It gave the whole room a warm glow, and as he watched several dust motes chased each other across a beam of sunlight.

Hunk didn’t close the door, so snatches of conversation from the front floated back to him. Whatever Lance was talking about, it was cheerful and upbeat.

It was strange to think about any one of them being cheerful. The specter of Galra rule hung over their lives, but in this cozy kitchen and over a typical breakfast, alien rule seemed far away.

There were no scenes like this in the Garrison, where everything had been metallic and chrome. The domesticity of this—and the lie of safety baked into such an image—choked on a piece of pancake going down, and Shiro was no longer hungry.

Galra were in the next room. The arena was in the vicinity, just a short ride away. Sendak was looking for him; he was not safe. None of them were safe, but they played house anyway, and abruptly the kitchen felt stifling. How Lance and his friends managed to keep up the charade for so long seemed a monumental feat. 

Footsteps.

“—in my room!” Lance’s voice came from the corridor, then he appeared in the doorway. He stopped there, hesitated, then looked in, his gaze darting everywhere. “Doing okay?”

Again, Shiro only managed a nod. Some of the cheer from the shopfront-tone lingered in Lance’s voice, and it was the nicest thing Lance had said to him so far. Sure, he had spoken up in Shiro’s favor last night, but Shiro had the distinct feeling that it was to keep the peace. And the easy way Lance traded quips back and forth with Lotor… Shiro wanted that familiarity too. Wanted it with a sudden intensity that hurt.

Lance’s eyes finally landed on his missing arm. “I’m waiting on Thace for that,” he said, fingers curling and uncurling on the door handle, “shouldn’t be long now.” Another pause. He seemed to be weighing options, and Shiro wondered if his being here was a burden.

“I- We’re busy with the shop. We usually try to all be here in the mornings just to be safe. I’m really sorry that we’re sort of hanging you out to dry, but…“ Lance ran a hand through his hair and his gaze went skittering around the room again. “Once this mission is over, we’ll all be freer.”

Before Shiro had a chance to reply, Lance left, jogging down the stairs. Shiro stared at the vacant doorway, hurt. It’s just— Should he say something? His relationship with these people rested entirely on severed connections and unspoken antagonism. With Lance, he had something to build on— at least, Shiro thought so. Lance recognized him first. Lance was the reason Shiro was here. 

So why did it seem like Lance didn’t want him around?

* * *

Lance grabbed his guitar and swung back ‘round to go upstairs. 

“Lance,” Thace said, and Lance nearly jumped out of his skin. 

“Christ.” …Was that a smile on Thace’s face? Jerk.

“The arm is ready for re-attachment. If you would send down the Champion on your way out?”

 _Alone?_ Lance thought, alarmed. “Hunk and I can’t accompany him. Pidge is due back at noon, we’ll send him down then.”

Thace only inclined his head. “Alright,” he said, then disappeared through the hidden door. 

It was entirely possible Thace simply forgot Shiro would be uncomfortable being alone with a Galra. Thace was a brilliant spy and agent, but he wasn’t so good with other people. Lotor once said Thace was so high-ranked within the organization purely because the leaders sought out no-nonsense agents like him. “Boring” was the word Lotor used. But then, he also called French braids boring, and requested Lance do his hair during their off time. Ladder braids. The fancy kinds his nieces used to go on and on about.

Lotor was…something else.

As he passed the kitchen and remembered his terrible attitude earlier, Lance shot Shiro a smile — Shiro was still staring into space, uncharacteristically silent. At Lance’s smile, he attempted a feeble one in return, and Lance hastily moved on. _Probably the shock_ , Lance thought, and sternly told the butterflies in his stomach to settle.

At the front of the shop, Hunk was wrapping up another batch of mint for the customer, an off-duty guard. The Galra who had requested Lance play something was admiring the carnations on display, her scales shining iridescent under the lights.

“Like them?” Lance said. “They’re just in bloom. Red is a Terran classic!”

“Oh!” She spun around.

Lance settled into his chair in the corner of the store and put on his best grin. Behind the Galra girl, Hunk shot him a semi-exasperated look.

He began the first notes of a Beatles cover. It lacked a (he laughed to himself) certain _je ne sais quoi_ when sung alone, but thinking about his sisters hurt, so he didn’t. The Galra girl was definitely a civilian. No armor, and too young to be a private. They get customers like that, occasionally, and the only explanation Lance can come up with was the Galra equivalent of soldiers bringing their beaus to the front— as far as they could find out from neighborhood sweeps, there wasn’t any Galra civilian residences in the city. 

Unless the Galra lived on their orbital spaceships and were beamed down to visit the human flower shop. Yeah right. 

He doubted she understood the lyrics, but it was a love song of sorts, and Lance liked to be genuine in his artistic endeavours.

As had become customary whenever he started singing, Hunk went and propped open their doors. A faint breeze picked up, and the flowers bent and bobbed. Lance upped his volume.

The Galra girl’s eyes were drifting back to the potted carnations as she swayed slightly to his music. She had a sharp, humanoid nose and full lips, a sweep of scales across her cheekbones and jaw, and Lance was not put off by her alien features. 

Sometimes Lance was absolutely certain that if humans and Galra had met on peaceful terms — if the Galra weren’t a trigger-happy expansionist-imperialist’s wet dream — he would genuinely flirt with Galra girls. There wouldn’t be guilt and insincerity behind every smile, wouldn’t be suspicion behind each conversation. 

“Would you like one of the potted variations?” Hunk said, as Lance lapsed into an instrumental period. 

She did seem taken by the carnations; most of the lizard-types were. 

In the end, she did make a purchase— one of their mini potted versions; she also picked a pale purple pot, and left the shop with a spring in her step and a faint humming of the chorus under her breath, slightly off key.

By mid-morning, they had made two more sales: a pick-up and a walk-in. Slow, by all accounts. The customers were more tight-lipped about gossip then usual, which didn’t tell Hunk and Lance anything useful about Sendak or the arena, and the usual flow of news grew to a trickle. Humans no longer had news outlets, not even radio. Everything became word-of-mouth. (Lance thought it was a criminal offense to not at least have a town crier.)

Galra did not bother with propaganda; they didn’t need it.

Lance cycled through the jazz standards, half for self-amusement, half for show. When his fingers grew tired, he put on the music system, then picked up the duster and the broom and began to clean at his own pace, singing along. They all had roles to play in the flower shop, and his was the air-headed musician. (Hunk sat at the cash register during the lulls, staring off into space. Probably dozing.)

The morning passed, uneventful. Several times Lance went to the back for supplies, and when he passed the kitchen, he saw Shiro dozing off, chin propped on a hand, a paperback novel left face-down next to the other, its spine slowly collapsing.

* * *

Galactic Gardens had a two-hour lunch break where they shuttered the display windows. Direct noontime sunlight on plants was ill-advised, and even more so when they were situated near a desert. 

Right before Hunk switched the hologram-status on the door to a cheery ‘back in two dobashes!’, Pidge walked in, headphones on, messenger bag slung over her shoulder, crop top, shorts, sneakers, hair in a bun, looking for all the world like she went out for a stroll.

“I’m baaaack!” she announced, pivoting into the doors past an exiting customer who winced at her volume. She hoisted herself onto the counter and leaned over to examine the cash register. The Galra, bouquet of lilacs clenched tightly in hand, sighed on their way out. 

Then the doors were shut, the blinds were drawn, and Pidge’s cheery exterior was wiped away like a fly on a windscreen. Lance and Hunk dropped what they were doing. 

“What is it?” Hunk asked.

“How’d it go?” Lance asked.

Pidge held up her hands. “We got in and out fine. No problems. I need to report to Thace.” She pushed past them without another word.

Hunk huffed, looking after her. “Stickler.”

At that, Lance snorted. “Says you. Who was the one whining about curfew in our Garrison days?”

Hunk flapped a hand at him, then grew serious. Haltingly, he said, “When I make the call to the Commander…”

A thump sounded from the back. “Oh— sorry,” Shiro's voice drifted over to them, muffled.

They both turned to look.

Shiro appeared sheepishly at the doorway, half in shadow, looking over his shoulder.

“Pidge needs a periscope,” Lance said, amused.

Hunk shook his head. “Don’t let Pidge hear you say that. She had a crisis about her height, you know? She will _gut_ you.”

“With what, a screwdriver?”

“She _is_ at the right height.” Hunk made a very significant look downwards.

Lance winced. He turned to Shiro, ready to switch topics. “Thace has your arm ready downstairs. Same room as last time. Do you need someone to come with?”

* * *

Shiro trailed behind Lance and Hunk as they led the way down. He wasn’t sure what to think about Lance’s expression at his request, but he'd made the decision to make friends and he was sticking to it.

Hunk broke off first, doing the universal gesture for a phone call. Lance thumped him on the shoulder, presumably for support.

Upstairs, Shiro had heard them, even though he tried not to. Hunk was going to call Adam, and Shiro didn’t know if he wanted to be there, or jump in and stop Hunk.

Lance paused a second too long before falling in step with Shiro. He visibly cast around for a topic of conversation, and Shiro saw the exact moment Lance landed on something.

“I noticed the book on the kitchen table,” Lance said, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Did you find Keith’s stash of harlequin novels?”

Surprised, Shiro gave a small laugh, and that led to a smile. “Those are his? I need to have a serious talk with him. When’s he coming back?”

“Not sure,” Lance replied. “You must’ve really dug around. Keith hides them like a squirrel with acorns. Do you know that we don’t have a local bookstore? So that means wherever Keith is getting new ones — and he does get new ones, I saw one with a blue dress on the cover that I’m _positive_ didn’t exist under this roof three months ago — he has a _supplier_. Ridiculous, right? And I’ll bet it’s one of the people who—”

The set of his shoulders gradually relaxed as he spoke, and although it was in truth a semi-coherent ramble, Shiro let the sound of it wash over him. It was just familiar enough to be comfortable — Adam was like that, sometimes, and the topic was usually a misbehaving student or a faulty piece of equipment the faculty continuously overlooked, with a similar cadence. If Shiro was in the mood for a pun, he’d say Lance’s tendency was just that little bit _alien_ from Shiro’s memories for it to be comforting without triggering _déjà vu_.

“—they’re really our lifeline. See, there also isn’t a local supermarket. There’s this monthly form you have to fill in and submit for the food delivery. Forget, and you starve. What do the Galra eat, you ask? Regris seems to subsist entirely on red meat and flowers. I’ve never seen Lotor have anything but fish and chicken.” Lance stopped, arms crossed, a finger in the air. “Do you think the Galra are carnivores?”

Shiro blinked back at Lance. He hadn’t expected the stop, and was now two steps ahead. Turning back, he said, “It wouldn’t surprise me if they were.”

“Well we obviously couldn’t go on record ordering Galra foodstuffs. We’re a flower shop, not a restaurant. I never thought to ask if they liked our food!” Lance seemed genuinely distressed.

A few feet away, the medbay’s doors opened. Pidge appeared, rolling her eyes. “Have your hospitality epiphanies elsewhere, Lance, and leave worrying about the food to Hunk. C’mon in, Shiro. Thace has something for you.”

“You mean besides his arm?” Lance’s response was the exact same shade of dry, and Shiro wondered at the distinct change in tone. Lance seemed to have a different voice for interactions with everyone.

Did Lance have one for when he was alone?

A Galra he hadn’t seen before sat at the single table in the room. He looked up when Shiro and Lance entered. “Champion. Good. Make yourself comfortable on the medical bed.”

As Shiro followed the instructions, he studied the new Galra; this must be Thace. 

_And he’s a high-ranking member of the Galra military_ , Shiro realized, catching the yellowish tint of Thace’s eyes. But unlike Sendak and his personal troupe, the quintessence-taint was faded— stringy, like milk left out to curdle, where Sendak’s eyes glowed in the dark. 

Once, Thace was high up enough to receive quintessence infusions. What happened to make him switch sides?

“How long will it take to decrypt these?” Lance’s voice pulled him back from memories of glowing yellow eyes.

Lance was bent over several sheets of what appeared to be glass, except these pieces appeared purple in the same way glass appeared green.

Thace opened a drawer, retrieved the bionic arm, then rounded the bed to the lighting equipment on the other side. On the table where he was sitting was a folder, opened like the expandable ones in Garrison archives, and holographic classification tabs floated above it in Galran.

Lance reached in and pulled out another slab of glass, tapped it, and frowned when all that showed up on the display — reversed, from Shiro’s position — was an input prompt. Variations of that screen lies scattered about the numerous glass files.

“Don’t know. Thace says it’s the records all right, but we have to wait for Regris.” Pidge swiped a finger over one of the slabs on the table. The same prompt appeared. She scowled.

“I don’t even see anything to input _with,_ ” Lance said, tilting the slab in his hands this way and that.

“It needs a reader,” Thace said, coming around to Shiro’s arm connector. Up close, Shiro could clearly see the way light reflected off his fur, and it was supremely strange to not be facing someone like Thace across a sandpit. 

“A reader?” Pidge said.

Thace lined up the ports, the arm facing the wrong way, then turned it, like slotting in a piece of machinery. Which, Shiro supposed, it was.

A familiar tingle spread through his shoulder as the weight settled. With a nearly silent _whrr_ , the arm started up. Lines of purple light bloomed around the port and spread down the arm, then a glow like processed quintessence poured into the channels of light and his whole arm lit up. It thrummed, and the connection to it opened in Shiro’s mind. He hadn’t been aware it was there, but now that it was activated, he vividly remembered the mental strain from the days of training when he first received the arm.

“The limiters have been removed?” He almost didn’t recognize his own voice. It was so cold and clinical, as though he was calm and this was all expected, when instead his heart pulsed in his throat and adrenaline coursed through his veins. 

Thace inclined his head. “As has the weight manipulators. It will weigh a little lighter than a biological arm. It is a combat advantage.”

So the dead weight of the arm when he was out of the arena had been another leash. Good to know.

Shiro deactivated the arm with a thought. The light faded, retreating into the port in reverse of its emergence until it was only an ugly metal arm, strangely plated and colored. But his battlefield awareness hadn’t faded.

The black fingertips didn’t feel like his fingertips. He held up both arms to the lamps at the back of the room, comparing, and through the gaps in his fingers he saw Pidge and Lance.

They were staring. Pidge, at his arm, the way a scientist stared at a specimen. Lance, at him, calculating. Their eyes met and this time, Lance did not flinch away. Somehow, it settled his racing heart.

Then Thace clicked a bracelet onto the bionic arm. It blinked orange twice, then purple, then darkened.

“What’s this?” He asked, and reluctantly broke the gaze. 

“A scrambler,” Thace replied, “for the droid patrols. Keep it on.” Then, business complete, he took a seat at the table and returned to sorting methodically through the glass slabs of data.

“Wait,” Lance said, looking between Shiro’s arm and Thace. Braced on the edge of the table he loomed over Thace, who was unfazed. “Those are for the guns! We only have so many of them— have you talked to Regris about this?”

“There is nothing to discuss. Either we hide the druid’s most advanced body enhancement and live, or we let a droid catch a signal from that arm and die.”

Lance backed off, mollified.

Pidge’s level of interest was only increasing. The look of scientific curiosity was quickly taking on an obsessive intensity. Shiro slipped off the bed, but didn’t know where to go next. He wasn’t sure he wanted Pidge to study his arm while it was on his person — maybe when she’s calmed down a little. He wished there was something to distract her.

That folder of glass slabs must have come from the mission they went on. Lance was now examining it, and Shiro couldn’t catch his attention. 

Then there were several knocks on the door, and Hunk poked his head in. “Guys, the Commander is on the line. I gave him a run down of our recent movements and mentioned a potential new recruit.” Hunk scratched his cheek. “I said he was trustworthy, so as per regulations, Commander Warszawski requested to meet him.”

Oh.

So soon?

Everyone was watching him. Shiro’s mouth was as dry as sandpaper.

Into the silence, Lance said, “Do we have an excuse to not do that?”

Shiro breathed.

“Er,” Hunk said.

“It’d be extremely suspicious,” Pidge said, but her voice was subdued.

“We could say he’s not ready yet.” 

Shiro snapped his gaze to Lance. Lance was looking at him again, the same steady, calculating gaze, and Shiro realized it reminded him of Lotor. It was a calculating gaze, and it said _they_ knew _you_ knew you were being calculated, and they did not care.

He didn’t like seeing it in Lance’s eyes.

“Or,” Lance’s blue eyes flicked to Hunk, and his tone changed again. “We could tell Commander Warszawski the truth and ask if he wants to see—”

“No,” Shiro gritted his teeth. Neither thought was palatable. Adam deserved an explanation. “I’ll meet him. Hunk?”

“…this way,” Hunk said, pushing the door fully open. 

* * *

“Was that the right thing to do?” Pidge craned after the two, then turned to Lance.

Lance pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know.”

“He looked so nervous. Maybe there’s something that we overlooked. Maybe we were too hasty. Maybe there’s _nothing_. We don’t know the first thing about the Commander, and Keith never talked. Maybe—”

“Zip it." Lance set down the glass file. “You wanna stop him, you go.”

It had never been in their hands to begin with. 

* * *

_…don’t expect me to be here when you get back_.

Till the day he was boarding Kerberos, Shiro thought Adam was exaggerating. They had lovers’ spats before, and said things they didn’t mean, and they’d pulled through. Walking the connecting tube into the shuttle, he glanced at the officers assembled on the grounds below to send them off. Behind him, the Holts were waving, and Mrs. Holt and her daughter waved back from the group down below. The sky was Dorothy Gale blue, not a wisp of cloud.

If Adam was there, Shiro never saw him.

Although Adam certainly didn’t count on aliens when he made the statement, Adam wasn’t the sort of person to go back on his word. Would he be happy to see Shiro after all this time? Would he _want_ to, if he had a choice?

Shiro’s steps faltered just as Hunk stopped in front of a black stretch of wall. Passing a hand over a small mounted device that Shiro would have otherwise overlooked, the wall next to it flickered like an old-time television screen with bad reception, then faded into a rough-hewn opening. 

Whatever Shiro expected, it wasn’t this: an empty room with a circular platform installed on the floor and a corresponding one above it, on the ceiling. On the dias was some sort of machinery that Hunk stepped forwards to fiddle with. 

Suddenly, the room was lit by the bluish glow of a screen, projected into the air.

Adam’s visage was enlarged several times, seated in a high backed office chair, bags under his eyes and hair rumpled, arms resting on the table in front of him, fingers laced. His glasses had a crack across a piece. Everything behind the lit chair was black static.

Seeing only Hunk, an eyebrow went up. “Where is the new recruit?”

“Er,” Hunk glanced at Shiro. Heart having lodged somewhere in his throat, he couldn’t decide if he wanted to run or keel over.

With an inhale that rattled, Shiro stepped forwards. It felt like a strange echo of his stage presentations — stepping into the blue wash of light like a spotlight... he felt that old persona flit over him, but it sat wrong, like trying on molted skin.

His attempt at a smile pulled at the scar tissue on his face, and when Adam went rigid in his chair and choked back a gasp, Shiro dropped it.

From the corner of his eye, Hunk beat a hasty retreat; at least they’re trying to give him privacy. Given what he’d seen of the cramped base so far, he appreciated the gesture. 

He forced his eyes to the screen and tried to speak. It... didn’t come out well, and meanwhile the shock in Adam’s eyes had flared into anger. He tried again. “H-Hello. Long time.”

Then he noticed he was raising the bionic arm to rub at his neck, and nervously lowered it. 

A flush was coloring Adam’s cheeks. His fingers were gripping each other so tightly they were white, his lips pressed into a thin line. His throat worked, and abruptly Shiro realized Adam wasn’t angry. Adam was trying not to cry.

“So I heard you’re the commander of these kids?” Shiro said hurriedly, unsure what effect he was hoping to achieve, only knowing that if Adam cried, something between them would be fundamentally changed.

It wasn’t that they hadn’t seen each other cry before — it was that now, if one of them failed to maintain the facade of a ‘normal’ reunion, whatever fiction they had crafted about the other over the five long years would be revealed for what it is, and then all hope of returning to the nebulous _before_ would be irrevocably lost. 

“Takashi?” Adam’s voice held none of the subtle authority he’d used to address Hunk. It was small, cracked, and tattered, in the way of something old and loved and lost. “You came _back_.”

On the last word, Adam’s voice broke and harsh line of his mouth crumpled.

And that was when Shiro realized this—coming to speak to him—was the wrong choice. 

Adam believed him dead. Had done so since the Galra drew overhead. Had cried, had screamed, had grieved and mourned and come to terms with their last words. Adam had moved on.

It didn’t matter if it was done out of necessity to lead. It didn’t matter if Shiro still held onto the dreams of youth, war-touched as they were.

The burn of rage came and went as quick as summer rain. The moment for anger had passed, as had everything else. Time and grief weighed on him, and Shiro understood the slope of Adam’s shoulders.

He stared at Adam, mouth dry. What could he say? What was there left to say?

Adam stared back with red-rimmed eyes that didn’t seem to see him. 

“What happened to your arm, Takashi?” Tired, colorless, rote, Adam sounded like he was going down a checklist.

Shiro blinked. Looked at the arm in question. “Oh. I was—” _fighting Sendak_ “—the arena—” _where I was imprisoned_ “—druids—” _the scientists, not the magicians—_

He stopped. Finally, he said, “I lost it.”

“Ah.” The resignation in Adam’s voice made Shiro look up, and instantly he wanted to leave, stop the pain he could see rippling under the surface of Adam’s expression. Adam wasn’t even facing the screen anymore. His head was turned, gazed fixed at a point to the left. He maintained a semi-upright position, but his fingers were lax, and even through the screen and untold distance between them Shiro could feel the fatigue rolling off him. 

An echoing tiredness was seeping into his bones. For what were they going through these motions? Shiro’s scars spoke for themselves; Adam’s haggard countenance could only be caused by the occupation. They had missed too much of each other’s lives; there was nothing left to say.

There was a long beat of silence. Then Adam visibly pulled himself together and said, “I trust the Blades have taken the necessary security measures. You will be placed under Thace’s command, as per the status of the local cell. I trust you will bring results, soldier. For all that died before us,” — Adam held a fist to his chest, seeming to pull a little vitality from the motion— “and for those that will die after.”

Without a visible command, the screen winked out.

* * *

Two pairs of anxious eyes affixed themselves to Hunk when he entered the medbay that had turned into a workroom. Perhaps they should move? It was hard enough to get adequate first aid provisions; he didn’t want to think about the headache that would be disinfecting an entire room, unless Thace — but Thace was preoccupied: sitting statue-still, his clawed fingertips were the only part of him to move. He was bathed in the glow of the suspended Galra keyboard and screen that indicated a Blade of Marmora monitoring the current missions.

“You didn’t stay to listen?” Pidge said, and Lance cried a reflexive _hey!_

“I’m once again glad I handle the communications.” Hunk shook his head at Pidge. He understood the urge to keep tabs on everything, _he did_ , but there were lines one did not cross. “I figured we have no business sticking our noses in it. What are you going to do, rig him a speeder to Central Command’s location of we-don’t-know?”

Pidge scowled at him. It’d be a thunderous scowl, if one hadn’t been on the receiving end of it for years. Hunk ignored it.

“What are those?” He pointed at the glass slabs he saw earlier.

“My haul,” Pidge said, at the same time Lance picked one up and sighed, “Physical files.”

“Why’re they blank?”

“They need a ‘reader’, whatever that means.” Pidge glanced at Thace, frowning slightly to see him still at work, but he did not look up.

“Where’s Keith?”

“Do you ever stop asking questions?” Lance said, amused.

Hunk put his hands on his hips and stuck his nose in the air. “I’m basically your one-man HR department. You will obey me.”

Pidge rolled her eyes. “En-route, must be. His designated safe house was further than mine. He’s the one who knows how to use the suit, remember?”

Hunk knew that. Hunk knew every detail about their supplies and its use, and that was one of the top reasons he rarely went into the field. When push comes to shove, information was what a resistance dealt in. His fellow humans can and will sacrifice themselves to ensure he got away, and so it made no sense to deliver him to the hands of the enemy when their cover stood firm.

Still, when it came to Keith, he worried more than most.

Lance and Pidge were busy with self-appointed duties from the very beginning, so they weren’t there to see Keith put himself back together, piece by piece. That was okay, because Keith was an intensely private person and sometimes Hunk pretended to’ve never seen anything, either. 

The arrival of the Blades was good for everyone. Lance found his skillset finally put to use. Pidge pulled herself out of the depths. Keith gained a purpose. Hunk… could finally stop fussing over the minutiae of shopkeeping and stop stressing everyone out. He had more to take care of.

Shiro’s return? He’s not so sure. It didn’t just put Keith on edge, although, wow, that was a ticking time bomb if he ever saw one; Pidge was gloomier; Lance was unnecessarily flighty; most startling of all was Lotor, who usually cared for nothing but the job (and maybe Lance?), pulling rank.

A big change was coming. That, Hunk was sure of. Whether they were adequately prepared remained unclear.

Then he realized why the glass slabs looked familiar. “Did you say ‘reader’?”

When a crate of rubbery-looking rectangular things passed through his itinerary he’d asked Regris what they were for. Regris had replied in his halting Terran, “Traditionally-oriented parsing technology."

“...What?”

“Like those…” Regris held one arm out and waved the other one above it, perpendicular. Hunk stared. “...light-things over your missives.” One claw pointed at Hunk’s paper notebook. (Yeah, the language barrier took them awhile.)

Thace glanced up for only a second, but it caught their attention. “D12. Second crate. There are only three.”

He must’ve been waiting for Hunk to have a spare moment. When Thace immediately returned to the screen with Galran flashing across at a dizzying speed, Pidge grew suspicious. “Is something wrong?”

A clipped, “Yes.” snapped them all into high alert.

Lances eyes darted to the door. “Which agent?”

Pidge began stacking the glass slides in quick motions. In a blink, most were back in the large black file. “Are we compromised?”

“Not yet. Regris is adapting.”

“Keith,” Hunk and Lance said at once, and while Hunk understood the exasperation and irritation in Lance’s tone, he couldn’t help but get a little annoyed himself. Yes, most of Keith’s past mistakes were avoidable, but this time they were infiltrating the Garrison. Or, the complex that used to be their Garrison. Like Pidge said last night — did they _have_ to be so antagonistic?

“What about Lotor?” Lance pressed. His fingers gripped the edge of the table so tight they were white, and a foot began to tap. Hunk sighed, internally. “Can’t he help?”

Thace jerked his head a centimeter to the left, eyes fixed on the scrolling lines. “Lockdown.”

Translation: too easily compromised. Which was true. Whenever Blades had to operate into daytime, they hunkered down in safehouses until sunset, at which point the stealth suits could be put back to use. Have a Blade agent emerge from a safe place just to assist a troubled teammate in danger of discovery? Impossible. Not only would Thace never order it, Lotor wouldn’t follow through with it.

Hunk gave the scenarios playing out in his head only a cursory consideration. No point in butting into something even Thace is having trouble with, worried as he may be. He should focus on what he _can_ do, instead of what he _can’t_.

“Pidge, we’re going to storage.” Hunk gestured at her, already moving out the door. Recalling the layout of their supply room was easy.

She finished packing the last slab of glass-data and made to follow. At the doorway, she said to Lance, “Prep the medbay then go upstairs. Sweep the shop. If the guards come knocking, act normal.” Pointedly, she looked at his feet. He stopped tapping, and gave a curt nod.

“Check in on Shiro,” Hunk added over his shoulder, “it’s been awhile.”

* * *

For a second more Lance stood rigid, every muscle tense and hearing nothing but his own heartbeat, then he took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. Thace’s brow was heavily furrowed, but he always looked like that, so Lance made himself go out, turn, squat to be level with the repurposed fuse box (he was there when Regris emptied it— first a knife to the casing then a claw, and the wires dribbled out like guts) and opened it to reveal shining jars of refined quintessence.

It must be Keith who was compromised, and knowing him, it was going to be either stab wounds or laser burns or both, maybe even before they completed their goal, and all of Regris’ work rendered useless too. _Perhaps he was shot off the speeder_ , Lance thought, viciously, then instantly regretted it. Everyone made mistakes. He was a prime example.

By the time he had a jar in each hand and kicked the fuse box closed, he had calmed considerably. What was it Hunk always muttered under his breath? Focus on what you _can_ do.

Right. If Regris and Keith had been caught or capsized in the desert or whatever else, there was nothing he could do about that now. But he can maintain the flower shop and make sure none of the _rest_ of them come under undue suspicion.

Re-entering the medbay revealed only that Thace had stopped typing. He still stared at the screen, arms folded, yellow eyes following words Lance had no hope of understanding. Lance set down the two jars of quintessence, rolled the table into the center, locked the wheels, then set out the first aid.

He lingered a little, glancing between Thace and the purple holoscreen, but after a second Thace shook his head again, and Lance took it as his cue to leave.

The communications room was set up further in than the medbay, and on the way there Lance shook out the last vestiges of tension from his frame. He had no idea how Shiro’s talk went, so it would be unhelpful to stress Shiro out further with more problems he can’t solve occurring to people he loved.

Then he saw Shiro, sitting on the ground outside the concealed door, head tipped back, a pool of lamplight nearby, illuminating nothing.

“Hey,” Lance said, keeping his voice light. “How’d it go?”

Shiro’s eyes shone in the half-dark, and he shook his head, slowly, in the same minute way Thace did, but where Thace was strung tight with concentration, Shiro moved like a man who hadn’t slept — like he’d been fighting nonstop for four years, and all that fatigue had caught up with him, and now he didn’t have the energy to move more than a centimeter at a time.

Shiro closed his eyes, and the shadows made alien patterns on his face. 

“Sit with me,” he said, and though it couldn’t have been louder than a whisper, in the sepulchral silence of the underground it bloomed across the distance between them, a ghostly plea.

Lance thought of the shop. “I—” but his throat closed up.

One breath in, one breath out. He sat down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
> .  
> .  
> Gods above. The reunion scene took me _so long_. I also did not expect Hunk to insist on a POV, but here we are. 
> 
> In regards to Lance's songs... Why are the only acoustic songs I know Beatle songs? Why have I only just discovered Judy Garland? Why do I do anything?
> 
> These chapters will only get longer. What happened to a nice and short story...


End file.
